“You know me better than you realize, Daphne,” he said. “No one knows me better than you do. No one ever will.”
She started to speak, but he forestalled her. “Listen to me. All week I have been trying to tell you and show you how much I desire you. I know words are inadequate to make you believe me, but I do not know how else to do it. What else can I do, Daphne?” He put his hands on her waist and pulled her back against him. “Could I say it with my body?”
She closed her eyes, but something changed in her. Something fluttered, softened. She lifted her hand, clenched her fist around air. “Don’t, Anthony, don’t.”
He pushed his advantage. “You desired me. Only a few weeks ago, in the antika.” He pulled back just a little. “Have you forgotten that?”
“I haven’t!” she answered in a fierce whisper.
“Nor have I forgotten I am not the one you wished to wed.”
“But I never desired her the way I desire you,” he said. It sounded so lame, but it was the truth, and he was desperate. “It is you who no longer wants me.”
She shook her head, her eyes still closed, her lips pressed tight together as she made a tiny sound of dissent.
“You deny it,” he went on, “but you deny yourself so many of the pleasures in life. Why, when I can give you them all?”
A tiny moan escaped her lips as ran his hands up her ribs to her breasts. “I do want you,” she admitted in a whisper. “It isn’t that. It was never that. I always—”
“Prove what you say, then.” He glanced over his shoulder at the door and pressed a kiss to her ear. “If you want me, spend the remainder of the night with me. We can go to my house. All the guests here will have gone by midnight and everyone will be in bed and asleep by half past one. Wear something to conceal your face. I will wait for you behind the mews with my carriage and have you back before dawn. Meet me there.”
“I won’t.”
“I will wait all the same.” He kissed her cheek. “You see, Daphne? Honor is not my only motivation, for I feel quite dishonorable at this moment. I want you more than I have ever wanted anything in my life.”
* * *
He did not think she would come. The three hours that had followed his illicit suggestion to her had been excruciating for both of them, as they pretended to play chess and pretended to enjoy supper, Madeira, and small talk at opposite sides of the table. By the time the party ended, he thought that she would surely have changed her mind.
But no. A few minutes after the church clock nearby had chimed half past one, he saw a cloaked, hooded figure emerge from the stable into the alley where he sat in his carriage. He opened the door and she climbed inside. When she pushed back the hood of her cloak, there was barely enough light to see her face, but it was enough. “Are you certain about this?” he asked.
“Yes.”
That was good enough for him. Time enough later to learn why she had changed her mind. Just now, he did not care. He pulled down the window shade, tapped the roof with his walking stick, and the carriage lurched into motion.
With the last shade down, it was so dark inside the carriage that he could see nothing of her. Over the sound of the carriage, he could not hear her breathe. She did not speak. The scent of gardenia was the only thing that told him she was there.
That night in the antika, he had seen her only in the dimness of moonlight. This time, he was going to light all the candles he could find. This time, he was going to see her while he made love to her, see the perfect curves of her breasts and hips, see the tapering length of her legs, see the expression on her face as she climaxed.
Anthony leaned back, concentrating on the sound of the carriage wheels, striving to drive away the hungry, aching need of his body. The carriage ride to Grosvenor Square seemed to take forever.
He took her through the stables and into the back of the house, for there were always carriages going in and out of the square at this hour, taking people home after parties such as the one they had attended, and even with a hood to cover Daphne’s hair and shadow her face, he did not want to take the chance of anyone recognizing her.
Holding her hand, he took her up the back stairs, and through the dark rooms and corridors that led to his own suite. He went into the dressing room, woke Richardson, told him to fetch a footman to light a fire, and explained that he would not be needing anything further until morning. His valet departed, with only one quick glance at the hooded woman by the bed with her back to him.
When the footman came, Anthony ordered every candle in the room be lit along with the fire. When the servant departed, he turned the key in the lock. At last, he thought, drawing in a deep breath, then letting it out slowly. At last they were alone.
Anthony turned around. So did she.
She pushed back the hood of her cloak, and he studied her bathed in the soft light. He was reminded of the first moment he had ever seen her, for she looked much the same now as she had then. No straw hat, but the same solemn, baby-owl face and a cloak, not a tattered and dusty one this time, concealing her body. Light reflected off of her gold-framed spectacles and kept him from seeing her eyes. She was much the same in all the superficialities, he supposed, but so different in a way much harder to define.
Tonight, all he wanted was to show her what he felt when he looked at her, not just what he saw. As he had told her earlier, if words and flowers would not suffice, he would use his body. He just hoped he could keep himself in check. Arousal was coursing through him like anarchy, but the next few hours were not for him. They were for her.
He moved to stand in front of her. He reached out and removed her spectacles, then placed them on the bedside table. He pushed her cloak off her shoulders. She wore no sensible dress of dun or beige cotton now, but instead the evening frock of midnight blue silk she had donned for the party. The neckline skimmed the edges of her shoulders, and the color made her skin look like pale gold in the candlelight. He traced her collarbone with the tips of his fingers, then cupped her cheeks and tilted her head back as he brought his mouth closer to hers. “Daphne” was all he could manage before he kissed her.
Beneath his, her lips parted at once, soft and lush and tasting of Madeira. Her eyes were closed, but he kept his open, for he wanted to see every nuance of feeling he could pull out of her with his hands and his mouth. He slid his hands up into her hair, grateful she had not become so fashionable as to want all those silly ribbons and silk flowers so many other women seemed so fond of. There were no pins, either, only combs, and as he pulled them free, her hair fell in a thick, heavy wave down her back. The combs fell to the floor, and he tangled his hands in her hair, reveling in the feel of it, warm and satiny in his fists. He deepened the kiss, tasting the hot sweetness of her mouth.
She made a tiny, smothered sound of desire and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her body closer to his and igniting his raw hungry need to be inside her, the need he was striving to keep at bay.
