Page 75 of A Symphony for the Earl

When he raised his head, it was to plunder the honeyed depths of her mouth. As she responded, seeking his tongue, something close to a growl rumbled from his chest. She shuddered against him. Christ, he was aroused. His cock leaked against his smalls. The entire evening had been foreplay for this moment.

“Fiona.” It was a low question, primal in its intensity. Her bodice rose and fell rapidly. She stared up at him, her dark pupils huge, and laid a tentative hand on his chest. He covered it with his own, pressing it to his heart, which was galloping like a herd of wild horses.

“Do you know what you do to me?” he asked, his voice hoarser than he intended. “Every time we are close, I want you and I’ve no defense for it.”

“Nor I,” she whispered. “I desire. It is becoming an addiction to want your kisses, to be near you, to have my hands on you.”

“Take what you want, Fiona.” He unbuttoned his waistcoat with unsteady hands. She lifted the thin lawn shirt from the waistband of his breeches and slid her cool hands up his heated skin, caressing his chest. His nipples became rock hard. When he pulled away, there was no disguising the blatant arousal tenting his pants, but he was past the point of caring. Groaning, he attacked the tightly fitting coat.

“Damn Maxwell,” he grunted. The sound of ripping fabric registered vaguely amid the roaring in his ears as he shook it off and pulled at his starched cravat. When he finished, the wool superfine and ruined neckcloth littered the rug, along with the silk waistcoat. His shirt was open to the waist, minus several buttons. He could not remember undressing in such haste, ever. He was acting like a madman.

Fiona murmured a breathy approval, and he exhaled a ragged gasp of satisfaction as her fingertips grazed the crests of his taut nipples; his swollen member twitched involuntarily.

“Fiona,” he hissed, closing his eyes. It was almost more than he could bear and he seized her hands, cradling them in his own. She made a soft sound of protest, but he buried his heated face against her open palms. “I am desperate for you.”

She freed her hands and reached up to throw her arms around his neck. “A rúnsearc, mo cheol, come to me.”

He pulled her close and covered the swell of her breasts with kisses, cupping them through the thin muslin. “So lovely.” The pink buds crested and clung to the delicate fabric of her gown, and he nipped them softly as she moaned, her head falling back. The blood thundered through his veins, but he managed to hold on to reason. Until she moved her hips, seeking and finding the length of his straining cock.

They gasped in unison, locking mouths violently, and without thinking, he swung her up into his arms and strode to the plush sofa. Richard lowered her to the cushions, fully intending to tear open the placket of his breeches and take her then and there. His hand was reaching for the buttons when he froze.

She gazed up at him mistily, caught up in arousal and ardor—but also something that shook him to the core. Trust. She trusted him. Not just with her virginity, but as her one lover and partner in intimacy. Possibly for the first time, he realized the responsibility he held in his hands. His future wife deserved better than a desperate deflowerment on the music room sofa.

Ignoring his aching need, he bent and rearranged her gown with unsteady fingers. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly; he could feel her heart beating like a captured bird.

“Fiona, forgive me. I should have never let things go this far.”

“B-but…I don’t understand. Did I do something wrong?”

“No. I behaved abominably, and this debacle is entirely my fault. It won’t happen again.”

Embarrassment replaced confusion; she sat up, pale as linen. “Oh, God. What was I thinking to behave so wantonly?”

“No—I—” He lifted a hand, then let it fall. He had used his experience to seduce her, then lost all control. There were no words for his behavior.

“Was this a test of my modesty? Did I fail by responding so easily?”

“Fiona—”

“Or did you simply want to prove that I can’t resist your advances?” she asked icily. “Aren’t I a bit inexperienced for your tastes? Surely, Mrs. Davenport is better suited to your needs.”

“If you were more experienced, you would know you are mistaken,” he said, stung.

“I realize I have few options other than marriage to you, Lord Richard. But when we do marry, please take all the mistresses you want and leave me alone.”

“Rest assured, I won’t disturb you with my distasteful attentions.” The words were rash, and he regretted them the moment he spoke. Something had gone terribly awry. He had given the impression that he didn’t care, which was the opposite of what he wanted. She was pushing him away, perhaps for good, and it was as if some horrible chasm loomed before him.

He realized there was no guarding his heart this time, no barricade of reserve left to erect. He was in love with her. And the pain that his love might burn unrequited was excruciating.

With a stiff bow in her direction, he picked up his fallen clothes and left the room.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Preparations for the Ball and Overture

On Thursday, Fiona stood in the middle of Madame Brigitte’s shop as Madame herself put in pins for the final alteration to her betrothal gown. The ivory satin wedding dress, still in the early stages, adorned a mannequin near the bay window.

Richard had hardly been home since they argued in the music room, and she was grateful that they exchanged nothing more than the most cursory of greetings. Her emotions from that night were still raw. Although she had taunted him with indifference, she knew that wasn’t true. His passion had been genuine. Perhaps his regret in seducing her was real as well. Had she jumped to the wrong conclusion?