Do You Want to Start a Scandal EPB Read online

  Charlotte clung to him, resigned.

  She had no warmth left in her body to fight it, no wits remaining to find a path out.

  If Piers Brandon, the Marquess of Granville, in all his proud, decisive, muscular handsomeness, had made up his mind to be her champion . . . ?

  Very well, then.

  It would take a stronger woman than Charlotte to refuse.

  She fell against him, sinking into the romance of the moment. It hit her all at once, the effort she’d expended resisting this sensation all along. Like a swimmer who’d spent hours thrashing against the current, only to surrender from fatigue.

  She was, in every sense, swept away.

  He held her in a tight, possessive embrace against his chest as they set a course for the woods. His presence behind her was so strong, so warm, so safe.

  And he smelled like a dream. The kind of dream that left a woman short of breath and damp between the thighs. Woodsy, spicy, entirely masculine.

  She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek to his waistcoat, breathing him in.

  He slowed as they entered the woods, guiding the horse to a secluded, sunny clearing.

  There, they paused.

  Piers dismounted, then took her by the waist and helped her down.

  “Why are we stopping?”

  “I want to see for myself that you’re well and unharmed. I can’t do this once we’ve returned to the manor.”

  He settled her on a freshly hewn tree stump. First, he divested himself of his coat and riding gloves, hanging them over a convenient branch. Then, working in brisk, businesslike motions, he unbuttoned the jacket of her riding habit before easing the sleeves down her arms. She shivered a little, hugging herself. Her white, thin chemisette was painted to her torso with river water and nearly translucent.

  If Piers noticed, his gaze didn’t linger. Having laid her jacket in a sunny patch of grass, he went on one knee before her. He took her right foot and propped it on his knee. After wrestling with the wet knots of her bootlaces for a few moments, he reached into his own boot for a knife and sliced them clean down the middle. Then he slipped the boot from her foot and set it beside the stump before reaching under her petticoats to untie her garter and peel the wet, clinging stocking from her leg. His hand passed from her ankle to her thigh, not groping or caressing—merely making an assessment. He satisfied himself that her toes still wiggled, and her ankle still bent in all the proper directions, and confirmed that she didn’t yelp in pain when he pressed there, or there, or there . . . or there.

  Then he set her foot gently in the grass, propped her left boot on his right knee, and began the same process anew.

  As she watched him from her perch on the stump, Charlotte warmed inside. The afternoon sun had begun to dry her hair and revive her spirits. She didn’t feel so monstrous anymore.

  As Piers swept his touch from her ankle to her thigh, she bit her lip.

  “Did that hurt?” he asked, looking grave.

  “No. It only took me by surprise.”

  She looked at the ground, where he’d set her boot directly to the side of its mate and even folded her stockings into neat, matching bundles. So orderly. So very Piers. The same habit that would have irritated her a week ago now landed in an altogether different way. It struck her as endearing. Sweet.

  Possibly the best thing anyone had ever done for her.

  Good heavens. From the fount of tenderness welling in her heart, one would think those two bedraggled stockings had been baskets of flowers, or ropes of diamonds. They were lumps of useless, itchy wool. Not even her best pair. And yet, as she stared at them . . . She wanted to cry.

  What was wrong with her? Something must be. The possibilities unspooled in her mind, each worse than the last.

  She was nearing her monthly courses.

  She’d incurred an injury to her skull.

  She’d inherited Mama’s nervous complaint, or perhaps . . .

  Or perhaps she was falling in love.

  Oh, no. Oh, Lord. That had to be it.

  She was in love.

  On instinct, she curled her fingers around the edges of the tree stump. As though if she didn’t hold tight, she might slip off. Or float away.

  Piers returned her foot to the ground and leaned forward.

  She clutched the stump for dear life.

  Oh God oh God oh God.

  He was so close. So close and so handsome.

  Well, he’d always been handsome, but now . . . looking at him hurt. That small, perfect cleft in his chin reached inside her somehow, and squeezed. Her head spun. Her heart pounded so hard it would burst.

  No one had warned her it would be like this. Love was supposed to feel good. Wasn’t it? Not terrifying.

  Perhaps this wasn’t love after all, but malaria.

  His hands encircled her waist. “Your ribs feel all of a piece.”

  Did they? A small miracle, considering how her heart was battering them from the inside.

  He felt her crown for lumps and pushed her hair back from her face. “No headache?”

  “No.”

  “Any trouble breathing?” he asked. “Do you feel faint or dizzy?”

  “A little,” she answered, honestly.

  And who could fault her? She’d fallen in a stream. She’d fallen for this man. Headfirst, both times, with no warning.

  It was all too much.

  “When we’re back at the manor, I’ll call for the local physici—”

  Charlotte kissed him.

  She couldn’t help it. She needed to touch him, desperately, and her hands weren’t going to cooperate. Her fingers were so fused to the stump at this point, they might have grown roots.

  She pressed her lips to his, haltingly. Once, and then again. Silently begging him to kiss her back.

  Please.

  For a horrible moment, she doubted. Not him, never him. Only herself.

  Then he banished all doubt—every cold, lonely question—claiming her mouth in a passionate kiss.

  Yes. Yes.

  Here was the Piers she craved. The one that danger brought forth from the diplomat. The man who was possessive, impatient, more than a bit wild.

  And not to be denied.

  They kissed openmouthed, with tongues and lips and teeth. Struggling not to vanquish each other, but the space between them.

  Kissing wasn’t enough. Not this time. She wanted—no, needed—more.

  She needed to touch him, hold him, be as close to him as two people could possibly be.

  She worked her hands between them and pried at the stubborn, prudish buttons of her chemisette, then abandoned them for the equally maddening buttons of his waistcoat. They resisted her, too.

  Frustrated, she finally tugged his shirt free from his breeches, then thrust her hands beneath it.

  He sucked in his breath. The chill of her fingers against his abdomen seemed to shock him to awareness.

  Undaunted, Charlotte stroked her hands over the tensed muscles of his torso. Caressing, soothing. Tempting him to touch her, too.

  As his gaze wandered her face, a debate raged behind his cool, blue eyes. The proper gentleman inside him was putting up one last fight. She could sense him balanced on the razor-thin edge between duty and desire.

  “I’m cold,” she whispered.

  And that was all it took.

  I’m cold.

  Those two quiet, simple words were all Piers needed to hear.

  To her, they were a plea. Perhaps an invitation.

  To him, they were a call to action.

  She was cold. His blood was on fire.

  The rest was logic.

  He would bare her. Hold her, skin to skin. Warm her in every way, with every part of him God had fashioned for the purpose.

  Not merely because he wanted it—and bloody hell, he wanted it. But because she was his to care for, now and always.

  And she was cold.

  He went into ruthless action, dispatching every button that had da
red disobey her chilled fingers. The skirt and petticoats gave way easily enough. He peeled the wet chemisette from her body, stripping her down to her shift and stays, then reached behind her to untie the laces of her corset with one swift tug.

  She gasped as the air rushed into her lungs.

  The sound inflamed him.

  He counted in his mind as he slipped the corset laces from their eyelets.

  One, two, three . . .

  Her sweet, pink lip folded under her teeth.

  Four, five . . .

  Still not too late. Turn back. Tell me to stop.

  Six.

  That was it. Persephone was his.

  He took her by the arms and pulled her to him, kissing her deeply, without any reserve. As he’d never kissed any woman, holding nothing of himself back. Not his desire, not his yearning . . .

  Not his heart.

  His heart?

  Damn. He couldn’t grapple with that idea now. Not when his hands were full of Charlotte. Her tangled hair, her wet chemise, her chilled, trembling body beneath.

  He lifted her off her feet, and she gave a startled laugh. The sound danced over his skin like a cascade of golden sparks, singeing and teasing him. Making him feel alive.

  He made a bed of his coat for her, spreading it in a sunny patch of grass, and she reclined on her elbows, watching intently as he stripped off the unbuttoned waistcoat and moved to yank his shirt over his head.

  “Wait,” she said. “Go more slowly. I’d like to watch.”

  As she wished.

  Gathering the hem in his crossed hands, he leisurely lifted the garment over his head and shook it down his arms.

  He stood on his knees before her, torso bared to the full midday sun.

  She stared at him, rapt. “I changed my mind. Be quick.”

  It was his turn to laugh. He removed his boots and breeches as quickly as he could manage, joining her in the grass before the wide-eyed curiosity on her face could transform to alarm.

  She was a virgin, and he was exceedingly . . . ready. Hard, aching, and primed by a week’s worth of frustrated lust. He wanted to make this good for her, but he didn’t know if he could.

  “Charlotte.” He ran his hand from her breast to her hip. “I want you. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I am aching to get inside you. I don’t wish to hurt you, but I suspect I will. I fear I must.”

  “Goodness, don’t be so solemn.” She stroked his brow. “I know it will be a little painful. I’m not afraid. You don’t need to be afraid, either.”

  Afraid.

  He wanted to shrug off the word in a show of manly bluster. But he couldn’t—not convincingly. His breath was shaky, and his hand trembled as he drew a caress down her thigh. Unlike Charlotte, he couldn’t blame it on the chill.

  He needed to get her out of that shift. The linen was thin enough that it had already begun to dry—but he wanted her bare. He slipped a hand beneath the hem and drew the shift upward, peeling the milky gauze from her body and revealing everything she was beneath.

  She didn’t hide herself from his gaze. He drank it in—the sight of her body bathed in sunshine. So beautiful, it rendered him speechless. Judging by the shy smile gracing her lips, she intuited his admiration well enough, even without words.

  Her fingernails teased the hair on his chest and raked over his flat nipples. He slid a palm over the smooth, silky planes of her back and nuzzled the softness of her breasts.

  Nestled in the tickling grass, breathing the green and burnt-orange scents of autumn . . . They might have been the first man and woman in Creation, discovering one another in the Garden of Eden. Exploring all the parts that made them different. Sharing all the desires that made them the same.

  He kissed his way down her body, worshipping every inch of her. She bucked and gasped as he nudged her thighs apart and ran his tongue along her crease.

  “Let me do this for you,” he murmured, in between light passes of his tongue. “I’ll make it better. I’ll make it so good.”

  He framed her waist in his hands and reached toward her center with his thumbs, spreading her wide. After exploring every pink, secret petal of her sex, he centered his efforts on the swollen bud at the crest.

  Her hand tangled in his hair, and all he heard was the shallow rasp of her breath. She began to writhe beneath him, twisting her hips to seek more contact, more pleasure.

  He held her in place, never ceasing the gentle flicks of his tongue. Once she’d resigned herself to the pleasure, he moved a hand between her thighs and pushed two fingers inside her, thrusting them in and out as he kept up his kisses and tender suckling.

  “Piers,” she gasped.

  He didn’t pause for even a moment to reply, only settled in to his task with renewed dedication.

  He felt the quiver of her thigh against his cheek, and it encouraged him to work his fingers deeper, faster. Her body tensed.

  Yes. That’s it. Surrender to it. Let it happen.

  He would have licked and kissed her all day if she’d needed him to do so, but she broke apart beneath him in stunning fashion, gasping and arching off the ground.

  He pulled her down to the earth with gentle nuzzling and caresses until her breathing slowed.

  He kissed his way back up her belly, crawling on hands and knees as he moved atop her. He guarded her body between his arms, offering himself as a shelter. But what she gave him in return was so much more. Comfort. Succor. A soft place to lay his heavy heart.

  Her thighs parted, making a cradle for his legs. The hard, eager curve of his cock wedged tight between their bellies, straining toward her navel.

  He raised himself up on straightened arms. Then he rocked his hips, so that the head of his cock parted her and fitted just where it wanted to be.

  She looked up at him with clear eyes and absolutely no misgivings. She was so damn trusting it made his chest ache. He fought the impulse to claim her fast and hard. Make her his own before she could change her mind.

  “If we do this,” he said, “you must marry me. You do understand that?”

  She nodded, but it wasn’t enough. He needed words.

  “Once we’re joined, you’ll be bound to me. Irrevocably. Always. Tell me you understand that. Tell me you want it. I need to hear it from your lips, Charlotte. Say you . . .” The breath rushed out of him. “Say you’ll be my wife.”

  Charlotte gazed up at him, her heart wrenching with emotion. It seemed she had finally heard a true proposal. Or as close to it as she was likely to get.

  “Yes, Piers. I’ll marry you.”

  I will marry you, and I will love you. And somehow, some way I will make you love me back.

  She was resolved on one thing. She was not going to be one of those virgins who whimpered and cried upon her deflowering. She could take a bit of pain. Anyway, his fingers had already been inside her. How much bigger could this part of him be?

  Much bigger, she discovered, as the tip of him nudged at her entrance. Bigger, thicker, harder, hotter.

  Just . . . more. In every way.

  Nevertheless, she thought she was dealing with it all rather admirably.

  And then he pushed inside.

  Oh Lord oh Lord oh Lord.

  She couldn’t help it. All her resolutions were abandoned. She cried out and tensed, digging her fingernails into his shoulders like claws.

  He cursed. “Sorry.”

  It’s all right, she wanted to tell him. It’s fine, truly. Plow on ahead. No need to worry about me.

  But it wasn’t all right, and she wasn’t fine, and if he plowed on ahead just now, she would likely serve him an involuntary punch in the eye.

  “I’ll go as slow as you need me to. I won’t move again until you tell me you’re ready. I swear it.”

  Charlotte nodded. She breathed in and out, willing her body to relax.

  When the pain finally began to ebb, she released her tight grip on his shoulders. He slid in a bit farther, and a bit farther still, and—mi
racle of miracles—it didn’t make her want to scream.

  “Better now?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He cared about her comfort. He was working so hard to make this not only bearable, but wonderful. And that made everything better.

  His every careful, inching thrust went easier than the last. Her body stretched and ached, but in a tolerable way. Perhaps even a pleasant way.

  When he was finally fully seated inside her, he gave a low moan. The last bit of tension in her arms and neck melted.

  And then she did the most ridiculous thing:

  She lay back and thought of England.

  It came to her all at once: house parties and foxhunts, partridge shooting and prizefighting. Lovers meeting in libraries and carriages and autumn dales.

  All those strange, silly, so very English quirks of manners and mystery that had formed their characters and forced them together.

  He noticed her smile. “What’s so amusing?”

  “Only everything.”

  He bent to kiss her. “I rather adore that about you.”

  I rather adore that about you.

  Her heart gave a bittersweet twinge.

  Don’t be greedy, she told herself. With a bit of strategic memory, the redaction of a word or two, she could remember that as I adore you—or close enough to it.

  He took her in slow, gentle strokes at first. Then his thrusts became rougher, more urgent. It hurt, but this was what she’d been waiting for. She wanted to watch him, see his face contorted with raw pleasure and unfettered need. But at the last moment, he withdrew and turned aside, spending himself into the folds of his discarded shirt.

  Preventing conception was a considerate gesture, she told herself—even if she was left feeling hollow and a bit disappointed. Even in that last moment of abandon, he’d managed to keep his restraint.

  Afterward, he stroked her naked body in the sunlight, touching and exploring and looking where he pleased.

  “You are like a boy with a new plaything,” she said.

  “I’m not a boy, Charlotte. I’m a man. A man who’s been trusted with royal secrets, battle plans, and international treaties. And now . . . I’m seized by the notion that you’re the most precious thing I’ve ever held.” His eyes burned into hers. “You’re mine now.”