Douglas: Lord of Heartache (The Lonely Lords) Read online

Lovely, useful word—particularly when whispered as a desperate plea.

  He lifted his hips minutely, and Guinevere flinched away. Her gaze was focused on the place where their bodies would join, her eyes holding equal parts worry and passion.

  “Guinevere, I need you to kiss me.”

  She leaned down obligingly and treated him to another languorous, sanity-robbing assault on his mouth. As her tongue traced his lips, Douglas shifted his hips up again, the merest fraction of what his body sought. She didn’t flinch, and it was enough that—thank all the gods—he was threaded into her body. He added to this a soft caress to her breast and felt her relax above him.

  Her breasts, he finally recalled, were exquisitely sensitive. He kept his cock shallowly embedded in her slick warmth and brought both hands up to her breasts.

  “Move on me, love,” he coaxed. “Pleasure yourself.” She broke the kiss momentarily and flexed her hips slowly. “That’s it, but give me more.”

  He experimented with adding his own flexion to Guinevere’s undulations, and when she arched her breasts into his hands, he concluded she was pleased with his efforts.

  As, by God, was he. And beyond pleased with her.

  Sliding one hand to the small of her back, Douglas anchored himself and settled in to penetrate his way to her depths with slow, steady strokes.

  “Douglas Allen, you feel sublime.” She curled down to his chest, her breathing deep and a trifle unsteady. They left off kissing, both apparently more interested in this other, newer pleasure, the overwhelming pleasure of intimately joining. Douglas’s free hand cupped her breast, and Guinevere arched into his hand, her hips writhing in counterpoint to the pleasure of his thrusts.

  Seeing her face suffused with arousal and feeling her body succumb to passion, Douglas allowed himself to escalate the speed, force, and depth of his thrusts.

  “I want you to have your pleasure of me.” Longed for it, and desperately hoped he could manage it for her.

  “Douglas…” Her voice held wonder and yearning. Also some bewilderment.

  “I want to be inside you when you come,” he whispered, closing his fingers in firm rhythmic pressure around her nipple. He let himself thrust harder, then harder still, watching all the while for any sign from Guinevere that she was unreceptive to his efforts.

  “Douglas…” The longing in her voice had become more intense as her hips began to meet his with strength and purpose. “I want… so much.”

  “I know.” He nipped at her breast. “Let go for me, love, just let go…” He took her nipple in his mouth, inspiring Guinevere to a soft, keening moan. Driven by his mouth, his hands, and his cock, her body began to spasm around him in great clutching shudders of pleasure that tested Douglas’s resolve to its limits. When she would have flinched away from the intensity of the sensation, he drove her forward into its depths, thrusting relentlessly, slowing his hips only when he felt her pleasure subside.

  In the aftermath, Guinevere lay sprawled on his chest, her fingers tracing his features.

  Douglas kissed her temple. “My love, tell me you are all right.” Tell me I am your love, too.

  She flicked her tongue over his nipple.

  “Ah, love…”

  Guinevere repeated the gesture then traced his sternum with her nose.

  While she drowsed on his chest, Douglas barely moved inside her, minutely gliding in, and then partly withdrawing, but the pleasure of it was exquisite. He’d not shared erotic intimacies this way before, not ever, and the sheer glory of Guinevere cast away with passion soon had him lost to restraint. He thrust hard and deep, and she met him exuberantly.

  “Come for me.” He heard her whispered exhortation just before she opened her mouth on the meat of his shoulder. And then… “Dear God, Douglas…”

  Her pleasure sent him hurtling over the edge, tossed headlong into endless moments of profound bliss. Before it was over, Douglas’s vision wavered, his ears roared, and even lying twined tightly in Guinevere’s arms, he felt a sense of breathless vertigo. So he held on, and in that moment, could not have let her go to save his own life.

  “You are all right?” Douglas whispered some moments later.

  “Better than all right. You?”

  “Lovely.” The word felt strange on his lips, strange and… well, lovely. “Beyond lovely—though becoming a bit untidy.” He was, in fact, slipping from her body. “Flannel, sweetheart. Sooner rather than later.”

  She reached over to the nightstand and slapped a cloth into his hand.

  “Lift up and forward.”

  “But I’ll…” How could she argue? How could she be Guinevere and not?

  “Yes, you will,” he said, “onto me. Better me than the sheets.” He patted her bottom—why had he never patted her lovely bum before?—and she eased forward. Douglas swiped at her gently with the flannel and blotted it against her sex before guiding her off of him altogether. He tidied himself up as well, then wrapped an arm around Guinevere’s shoulders.

  “You want to talk?” he asked, drawing her head to his shoulder. Quite possibly, he needed her to talk to him, if even a little.

  “I don’t know what to say. The sensations are indescribably intense, the pleasure overwhelming, the emotions beyond description. I am in awe, bewildered, and completely incapable of comprehending this.”

  Were he asked, Douglas might have admitted to the same list, though he might also have been carried away enough to have gone a step further. I love you too. “Do you have any physical discomfort?”

  “No. None.”

  Douglas relaxed fractionally at that assurance, but as she heaved a sigh he waited, prepared to hear any criticism, any demurrer.

  “Is it always like this?”

  Ah. A brilliant question—and something he could work with. He kissed her temple, and if he’d been able, he might have kissed her very thoughts. “No. I have never, Guinevere, not ever, enjoyed a sexual experience as much as this. I think between us, it would always be wonderful, though not always in the same way.”

  “This is what my cousins have, isn’t it?” She sounded puzzled and wistful. “Their wives thrive on their affections.”

  “I suspect this is a substantial part of their marital joy.” For which his envy was without limit.

  She snuggled closer, the fit of their bodies nothing short of marvelous. “And this is why you want to marry me, because you knew it would be like this?”

  “One can’t know how matters will progress with a prospective lover, but yes, this is part of why I want to marry you.” Want desperately to marry you. This time he kissed her brow.

  “I wish you could.” The wistfulness shaded closer to misery, or perhaps closer to sleep.

  “I wish we could too.” Wished, prayed, importuned the Almighty without ceasing… the yearning Douglas felt to spend the rest of his life with this woman beggared description.

  He stayed with her until her breathing was even and her body relaxed in slumber. As much as he wanted to remain with her through the night—through every night—Douglas dared not. He sensed she would not marry him, even if they were found scandalously entwined in the morning, but regard for her reputation alone wasn’t what sent him back to the cold comfort of his solitary bed.

  He left Guinevere’s bed because he feared if he allowed himself to spend the entire night in her arms, he would never be able to let her go.

  ***

  Douglas poured a fresh cup of breakfast tea for his lady and for himself, having shooed the footman off and suggested that worthy fellow shoo the maids off as well. “How are you this glorious morning, Guinevere?”

  “Glorious?”

  The tiniest hint of uncertainty in Guinevere’s eyes only warmed Douglas’s heart. “For me, it is glorious. You are glorious.”

  She found her tea fascinating at that remark, and Douglas felt a su
rge of affection for her that made him want to scoop her into his lap and… by God, he wanted to tickle her.

  He settled for laying a hand on her arm, but wondered if he could tickle her out of her shyness—and if she might tickle him back.

  Which thoughts suggested he had misplaced his sanity the previous night, and happily so.

  His lady was shy this morning and, he suspected, vulnerable. “Is something amiss, Guinevere?”

  “You left me,” she murmured.

  Without penning her a note, without plucking a rose from some hothouse bouquet for her pillow, without a whispered farewell. He had much to learn about being her lover, and hoped she’d allow him the time to learn it.

  “I did not want to drift off in your bed and be discovered there come morning.”

  “Douglas, you needn’t be concerned with the servants’ opinions of me. Your discretion is appreciated, though I’m already quite the fallen woman and hardly—”

  He stopped her with a finger to her lips.

  “You are fallen—into my arms, and while you are there, I will protect you with every resource I possess, including my very life.”

  She declined to argue, thank the Deity.

  “You haven’t answered my question, Guinevere.” Douglas added cream and sugar to her tea, for the small indulgences were what she permitted him to give her.

  “I am… well,” she said, as Douglas stirred her tea, passed it to her, and wrapped her fingers around the warmth of the teacup.

  “I am well,” she repeated more strongly, “and you are a bit glorious yourself.”

  She was so brave, and he was in such trouble. Such glorious trouble. He took a steadying sip of his tea, though the case was hopeless.

  “Am I really, now? Good to know. A fellow likes to hear these things from time to time. Would you prefer cinnamon for your toast? And you’ve some letters from your lady cousins. I brought them down for you in hopes they’d make a pleasant start to your day.”

  They passed the remainder of breakfast in companionable silence, parting so Guinevere could check on Rose—the letters unread on the sideboard—and Douglas could steal off to the library. He set himself to the task of drafting projections of the income and expenses needed to put Linden in good enough repair that it could serve once again not merely as a gentleman’s country retreat, but as a home where dreams could be shared.

  ***

  Douglas Allen had been whistling when he’d jaunted off to cavort in the library with his abacus. As Gwen made her way to the nursery, she realized that whistle might mean Douglas was leaning toward buying the property.

  This notion hurt.

  Gwen had hidden away at Enfield, burying herself in the agricultural cycles of land and livestock for more than five years. She’d been close to no one, save Rose, and she’d managed to convince herself it was a good life.

  Compared to the lot many faced, it was a very good life.

  But compared to the prospect of becoming Douglas’s wife—his viscountess—the years stretching before her at Enfield loomed bleak, lonely, and empty. More bleak and empty to think Douglas would choose Sussex and this pretty property.

  Though he should. Absolutely he should choose Linden, and she would encourage him to do so.

  Douglas was her miracle, a reserved, burdened man who nonetheless brought her caring, joy, and passion. She would not seek his like in another. She would not hope for other affairs to alleviate her loneliness. The price of Douglas’s regard was that Gwen saw, in stark relief, how far gone into isolation and despair she’d fallen.

  And when Douglas left her…

  She reversed her steps, slipped into the library, and stood just inside the door, watching Douglas at the desk. He had his spectacles on and scratched away with a pen in one hand, while he flicked at an abacus with the other.

  “Are you spying?” Douglas did not look up but frowned at the paper before him. “I am stuck on a column of figures. You must come pull me out of the morass.”

  Gwen shifted to stand beside him, to look over his shoulder while he wrapped an arm around her waist.

  “I can’t get the columns to tally the same across and down,” he said, nuzzling the underside of her breast, “but you should look them over anyway, because I have the nagging suspicion I’ve left out myriad expense categories. Come here.”

  He levered her around to sit between his legs, her weight braced on one of his thighs.

  “You’re right—you’ve left out all kinds of expenses and revenues, that I can see.” Gwen pretended to study his figures for another few moments, though she also examined the way Douglas’s golden hair grew in a swirl from his crown. “And you’ve no contingency fund.”

  “Do your worst,” Douglas challenged. He let her go to perch on the corner of the desk, which was fortunate for the remnants of Gwen’s wits. “Will you allow me to come to you again tonight, Guinevere?”

  Gwen glanced up and then went back to his figures, or tried to.

  “Guinevere?” He’d moved silently and stood beside her as she sat on the corner of the desk. A little hint of his cedary scent teased her nose, and the numbers on the page blurred. He leaned in, and by virtue of a hand on her shoulder urged her to rest her weight against his chest.

  “I didn’t know how to ask you,” she said, putting the figures aside.

  He let go a sigh that Gwen suspected meant he was relieved—as if she could have refused him—and then his lips cruised over her temple, and it was her turn to sigh. Some moments and several more sighs, groans, and caresses later, Douglas went to the door, locked it, and returned to the desk to stand immediately before her.

  He was gentle with her, drawing her skirts up, letting her be the one to unbutton his falls. He slid into her body easily while he kissed her insensate, and despite the novelty of the location and the position, Gwen felt as if this coupling in the broad light of day, in a public room of the house, completed them somehow. She watched the place where their bodies joined, watched the thick column of his erection glide into her, and then back out, wet, glistening, virile, and to her eyes, beautiful.

  A few minutes of that, a few minutes of knowing Douglas watched her as she watched him, and her desire began to gather in anticipation of more intense pleasure. Her last coherent thought was that this joining was different from its predecessor, intense but deliberate too, like a deep, rumbling roll of thunder rather than a sudden, sharp crack. Douglas joined her on a soft groan, and she felt wet heat when he spent deep in her body.

  She drowsed on his shoulder, unable to speak, think, or move while Douglas tidied them up and restored their clothing, all without moving away from her. She was drifting somewhere toward sleep or pure oblivion, when Douglas scooped her up off the desk and carried her to the sofa. He sat them down such that the arm of the sofa supported Gwen’s back, and tucked her head against the crook of his neck.

  “Douglas?”

  He kissed her temple then laid his cheek against her hair. “Right here, love.”

  “I slept.”

  “In my arms,” Douglas replied softly. “I wore you out—you may be sore.”

  “Sore?”

  “Intimately,” he clarified. “I was rather exuberant.”

  “I know.” Gwen arched her back and tried not to start wishing and wishing. “One would not suspect Lord Amery capable of such lovely, decadent, gratifying exuberance.”

  “Nor Miss Hollister,” he agreed, nuzzling her again. “But if one doesn’t get the library door unlocked fairly soon, the entire household will promptly begin considering the possibility.”

  “Blast.” Gwen kissed his jaw. She loved the angle of his jaw, finding it metaphor for his personality in general: resolute, clean, strong. God help her. “Just when I’ve a mind to inspire you to exuberance again.”

  When Mrs. Kitts came bustling in with the tea a whil
e later, Gwen was ensconced on the sofa, chewing the end of her pencil and sitting amid a sea of foolscap. Douglas sat at the desk, his booted feet propped on one corner, the only sounds the crackling of the fire, ticking of the clock, and the clicking of the abacus.

  “So serious, you two,” Mrs. Kitts remonstrated. “It can’t always be work, work, work, you know.” She set the tea tray down as Douglas abruptly went looking for something in the bottom drawer of the desk. “Well, it can’t,” she repeated, nodding for emphasis.

  Gwen recovered enough from her coughing fit to thank the woman and shoo her on her way, but when the door had closed behind the housekeeper, she dissolved into fits of laughter. It took two cups of tea—and keeping several yards between her and the hardworking Lord Amery—before she felt sufficiently composed to leave the library.

  “I’m going to see Rose,” Gwen announced, standing and stretching and sounding—she hoped—like she couldn’t possibly have been thinking of straddling Douglas’s lap as he sat ciphering away at the abacus. “Shall we have luncheon in here or in the dining parlor?”

  “Why not in the dining parlor, and why not invite Rose to join us?” Douglas suggested as he got to his feet.

  “Rose?” If Douglas had suggested Gwen ride naked through the town, she could not have been more surprised.

  He peered down at her. “Well, all right. Mr. Bear, too, though I understand he might be under the weather.”

  “How do you understand that?”

  “I usually stop by the nursery for the daily report on my way to breakfast, and then again before I change for dinner. Rose is most informative. My judgment is reserved about that bear, however.” He kissed her nose then returned to the desk.

  “I see.”

  “I will look forward to the company of you ladies at lunch.” Douglas had his feet propped and his spectacles back up on his nose before Gwen had left the library.

  As she made her way to the nursery, Gwen decided it didn’t matter when she’d fallen in love with Douglas. It might have been when he rescued Rose from the hornets, when he’d first grasped Gwen’s hand, when he’d been sufficiently interested in her to win her intimate trust, when he’d fought so hard to keep Rose well, or when he’d casually announced he made regular visits to the nursery.