A Duke by Any Other Name by Grace Burrowes Page 0,78
a witty remark, something charming and sophisticated, but I know not what. I want to cry but I am certain that is not the done thing, and why should I cry when I’m so…when that was…Rothhaven, for pity’s sake, say something.”
He moved away, and Althea nearly did start crying, but then he shifted her to her back and draped himself over her.
“Please don’t cry. If you cry, I will go mad. You never cry and neither do I, are we agreed?” He was smiling, but his gaze begged her for understanding.
She brushed his hair off his brow. “We are agreed. No tears, though I am moved far beyond joy, Rothhaven. I am utterly lost on the moors.”
“Let’s find each other again, shall we?”
He was fully aroused, and Althea had neither the will nor the desire to deny herself a second joining. Allowing Rothhaven to keep her on her back, though, was most unwise. He had more control over the dimensions of their passion this way, and he used that advantage to drive her mad.
When she would have hastened toward pleasure, he held back, then held back more. She retaliated by learning every muscle and bone of his back, shoulders, and buttocks; by using her tongue in the same rhythm he set with his hips.
They became a seamless oneness, suspended on the edge of yearning and yielding, until Althea could hold the balance no longer. She cast off into pleasure, becoming mindless—without a mind—simply a body and a heart, and both were entirely entrusted to Rothhaven’s care.
He waited until she was a panting heap, barely capable of languid caresses to his biceps, before he slowly withdrew. He braced one arm beside the pillow and wrapped his free hand under her backside, then began to move again.
She held him with all the fierceness she had to give, until he too was winded and replete. Then she held him some more, knowing that when she let him go, she’d be letting him go forever.
Rothhaven allowed her a few more minutes of intimacy, then made a brisk business of tidying up. He sat back, naked, his hair tousled, his gaze mirroring everything Althea felt—wonder, tenderness, despair, but some joy too. Taking a lover should always occasion at least a little joy.
“I have been greedy,” he said. “I like the look of you, loved witless in my bed.”
“Not greedy,” Althea said, struggling to sit up. “More generous than you can possibly imagine.”
His smile faltered. “You have been generous, Althea, but now we must be…”
“Sensible,” Althea rejoined, tossing a bolster at him. “You and I are always sensible, Rothhaven. I find the fit between me and sensibility much poorer than usual at the moment. Duty and I will barely be on speaking terms for weeks. I would like to become better acquainted with—”
He touched his fingers to her lips. “I know. Better acquainted with joy, spontaneity, laughter, indulgence.”
He stopped short of speaking the word love, but Althea was thinking it. Worse, she was feeling it. Love for the man who could be so devoted to an ailing brother that his own wishes and wants all but disappeared from his view. Love for a man with whom physical intimacy meant emotional closeness as well.
What a novel and daunting concept.
“Better acquainted with you.” She held up a hand. “I know, Rothhaven, here and now, you said, but your version of here and now rather leaves me…at a loss.”
He crawled to the edge of the mattress and sat on the side of the bed, half-facing her. “I am at a loss as well. I suspect I will be for quite some time.”
“You are gallant even in this, you varlet.” And he needed her help if they were to make it out of this bed without one of them collapsing into strong hysterics. Althea mentally rummaged for something a sensible woman would say in the circumstances. “I suppose we should get dressed lest the patient summon us.”
She did not want to put on her clothes, did not want to adopt the grumpy-cheerful tone of the soldier on a forced march, commiserating with his mates and urging them onward to the next battlefield. Why was life a progression of battlefields and defeats, anyway?
Rothhaven did his best to fall in with her tactics, helping her with buttons and hooks, passing her the boot that was half-hidden by the bed skirt. He allowed her to tie his cravat and manage his sleeve buttons, but these domestic gestures only dealt Althea’s heart so many