Seduced at Midnight

Chapter 17

Julianne saw the fire flare in Gideon's eyes, a heat so smoldering it seemed to set her skin ablaze. He'd spoken of his honor, but surely honor had naught to do with him accepting what she wanted to give him, what she desperately wanted to share with him. All of herself. What she needed to do now was set his skin ablaze. But in spite of the scandalously explicit books she'd read, she had no experience as a seductress. Having information and knowing how to apply it in a situation like this were two very different things. All she could do was let him know how much she wanted him. And pray he wanted her as well.

Her fingers still lay across his mouth, and she traced them over his full bottom lip. Then she stepped forward, until her body brushed the length of his. His nostrils flared, and he sucked in a sharp breath. Encouraged, she rose up on her toes, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pressed herself tighter against him. Then nearly sagged in relief. Even if he'd wanted to deny it, he couldn't refute the hard evidence of his arousal.

"Kiss me, Gideon," she whispered against his rigid jaw, the highest spot she could reach without his cooperation. Heart pounding, she squirmed against him, clinging tighter. "Please. Hold me. Touch me. Kiss m-"

Her words were cut off when, with a low groan that sounded as if it were ripped from his soul, he slanted his mouth over hers in a wild, raw, fiercely hungry kiss. One strong arm wrapped around her waist, yanking her closer, banding their bodies together as if they were bound by ropes. His other hand plunged into her hair, scattering pins, holding her head immobile while his mouth ravaged hers. A dark thrill raced through her at the intensity of his kiss. He kissed her as if he wanted to devour her, clasped her to him as if he'd never let her go. His tongue invaded her mouth, a favor she returned, relishing his warm, delicious taste.

Closer. She wanted to be closer to him. To feel more of his hardness. More of his heat. Taste more. Touch more. Just… more.

It seemed as if she could feel her heartbeat everywhere. Pounding in her ears. At the base of her throat. Her temples. Fluttering in her chest and stomach. In her abdomen, pressed so tightly against him. Throbbing in the aching folds between her legs.

Her restless fingers combed through his thick hair, fisting in the silky strands to pull his mouth closer. She heard him groan, then her feet left the floor as he simply lifted her straight up. As if in a daze, she felt him backing up, stopping when he hit the wall. Without breaking their kiss, he spread his legs, curved one large hand around her buttocks, and drew her into the V of his thighs.

And suddenly it seemed as if his hands were everywhere. Skimming down her back to caress her bottom. Plunging into her hair. Dipping into her bodice. Palming her breasts. Teasing her nipples into taut, aching points.

His mouth was equally relentless, trailing hot kisses along her jaw. Licking fire down her neck, his teeth scraping over the sensitive skin.

He reached between them and jerked his shirttails from his breeches, then grabbed her wrists from around his neck and slapped her hands on his chest. "Touch me," he commanded in a raw voice against her lips, his warm, rapid breaths mingling with hers. "Bloody hell, touch me."

She was only too happy to comply. She splayed her fingers then dragged her palms downward, slipping them beneath the untucked linen. The instant she touched his skin, they both groaned. His eyes slammed shut, and he dropped his head back, the muscles of his throat working as he swallowed hard.

Slowly she slid her hands upward, thrilling at how his muscles jumped beneath her touch. His skin was smooth and hot, ridged with hard muscle. Her fingers brushed over his nipples then sifted through the springy curls dusting his skin.

He groaned, lifted his head, and captured her face between his hands-hands she noted weren't quite steady. His eyes burned like dark coals, holding hers captive, his calloused thumbs gliding over her cheekbones while her hands roamed beneath his shirt. The raw hunger and need in his eyes most likely should have frightened her. Instead it exhilarated her. And she wanted more of it.

She dragged her hands lower and brushed them over the fascinating bulge tenting his breeches. A shudder ran through him. "I want to touch all of you, Gideon."

For the space of a single heartbeat he remained immobile, his gaze locked on hers, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Then with a low growl, he ripped open his breeches.

His hard flesh rose between them, fascinating, beckoning. His chest rose and fell with his fast, heavy breaths, and she slowly encircled him with her fingers then lightly squeezed.

"Bloody hell." The words hissed through his lips, and he grasped her shoulders, his fingers tightly gripping her upper arms. She pulled her gaze away from his captivating arousal and looked up. He regarded her through half-closed eyes that glittered like diamonds.

"You feel so… hot," she whispered. "And hard."

"You have no idea." He flexed his hips, a slow thrust into her hand. "Again," he growled, and she wasn't certain if the single word was more an order or a plea.

She obeyed, lightly squeezing him. His eyes slammed shut, and she looked down, watching her fingers surround his flesh and move slowly up and down his long, hard length, each stroke dragging another deep groan from him. With an agonized sound he pressed forward, grinding into her palm, and to her utter fascination a pearl of dewy fluid emerged from the tip of his arousal. She captured the drop on her fingertip and slowly circled the velvety head with the wetness.

"Julianne…" She could feel him trembling, and her name sounded torn from his throat. But before she could fully marvel that her touch affected him so, he pushed her hands away from him then yanked her toward him, trapping his erection tightly between their bodies, and kissed her. Deeper, more fiercely, impossibly with even more passion than he had before.

A sudden coolness brushed against her legs, and in some hazy part of her brain she realized he'd lifted her skirts. Hooking one hand behind her knee, he raised her leg, settling her thigh high on his hip.

"You taste so damn good," he whispered against her mouth. "And you feel so damn good…" His hand smoothed up her thigh. Curved around her buttocks. His fingers lightly traced between her cheeks, shooting a hot shiver down her spine, then moved lower to find the opening in her drawers.

She gasped at his first touch along her feminine folds.

"You're wet," he said, his voice a growl against her neck. "So beautifully wet."

His clever fingers were relentless, circling, delving, skimming, and gliding, until her every breath turned into a mindless moan. She clung to his shoulders, helplessly writhing against his hand, desperate for more. He slipped a finger inside her at the same instant his tongue entered her mouth, a simultaneous invasion that melted her knees. Need coiled within her, and her hips undulated, desperately seeking the magic she'd experienced last night.

With a deep groan he dipped his knees, curved his free hand around her bottom, and hauled her higher against him. And suddenly his hardness was pressed against her…oh, exactly right there. Her head fell back, and a long, guttural moan rattled in her throat. He slipped another finger inside her, stretching her in the most delicious way, and slowly pumped while he flexed his hips, a thrust that shot such intense pleasure through her she could only gasp into his mouth.

Held tightly against him, his fingers stroking inside her body, his tongue delving inside her mouth, his hot, hard shaft pressed against that magically sensitive female part of her, she simply came apart in his arms.

Molten pleasure pulsed through her, dragging a cry from her throat. He broke off their kiss and with a cry of his own he buried his face in the curve of her neck, whispering her name over and over in a voice that sounded as if he'd swallowed broken glass.

For several long seconds they remained locked in place, both breathing hard, and Julianne reveled in the strength of his arms around her. The feel of his rapid heartbeat thumping against her chest. The scent of his skin mixed with the musk of their arousal. She'd never felt so warm and protected and utterly, beautifully alive. And for that, she loved him.

Everything inside her stilled as those words echoed through her mind, their truth becoming clearer with each repetition. She loved him. She loved him.

God help her, she loved him.

Hopelessly. Stupidly. Impossibly.

Irrevocably.

For the space of a single heartbeat she tried to deny it but realized it was hopeless to do so. He'd captured her imagination the instant she'd seen him two months ago, and every minute since had only built on those initial feelings.

She felt him lift his head, and she leaned back, wondering if she should confess the depth of her feelings, wondering if she'd even need to, for surely he'd see them reflected in her eyes. Wondering if she might see in his eyes even a fraction of what she felt toward him.

The instant their gazes met, that hope died a withering death. Instead of glowing with tenderness or affection, his eyes looked like flat stones. His mouth was pressed into a grim line, his expression hard.

Without a word he set her away from him. Her rumpled skirts unfurled, brushing down her unsteady legs. With a lump lodged in her throat, she watched him use his handkerchief to wipe away the evidence of his release from his stomach. He then shoved his wrinkled shirt back into his breeches and fastened them, uttering an obscenity when he realized one button was missing, obviously ripped off in his earlier haste. She saw the button on the floor, next to her shoe, and bent to retrieve it. As Gideon didn't notice she'd done so, she slipped the flat disk into the pocket of her gown.

When he finished, he raked his fingers through his hair, hair she'd mussed with her impatient fingers. He then dragged his hands down his face and let them fall limply to his sides, as if he were too exhausted to hold them up any longer.

"I'm sorry," he said through obviously clenched teeth. "I didn't mean to…" He drew in a slow, deep breath. "That shouldn't have happened."

A cold numbness crept into her, pushing aside all the warmth she'd felt just heartbeats ago. "Why?"

Finally a crack showed in the granite of his expression, and disbelief showed through. "Bloody hell, there are more reasons than I have breaths to name them."

"I'll settle for one."

"You know them as well as I do."

"Because I'm getting married."

He shook his head and again stabbed his fingers into his hair. "That's only one of them, the one that has to do with my honor." A bitter sound escaped him. "Or what's left of it." He grasped her by the shoulders, and she saw that his eyes were no longer flat. No, now they were filled with unmistakable anguish. And anger. Although she couldn't tell if he was angry with her or with himself. "I told you-I don't take things that don't belong to me, Julianne. It's a point of pride and honor to me. And as much as I might wish it otherwise, you do not, cannot, will not ever belong to me."

"You are not the only one who would wish it otherwise, Gideon," she said quietly.

He released her and stepped back. "It doesn't matter what either of us might wish. The fact remains you are engaged-"

"Not officially-"

"Irrelevant. It is only a matter of papers to be signed. But even if you weren't betrothed, this… attraction between us is completely impossible. You're an earl's daughter. An aristocrat. A wealthy member of society. I am so far below you socially, I need to stand on a ladder and look up just to squint at the hem of your skirt."

"I told you, the trappings of wealth aren't important to me."

"It doesn't matter. You cannot change who you are. Who I am. And who I'm not. Fancy balls and gowns and jewels might not be important to you, but they're a part of your world. And that is something I'll never be-a part of your world. Your duty is to-"

"Marry according to my father's wishes?" she said bitterly.

"In your world, yes."

"And what is your duty, Gideon?"

"To let you do it. To not steal your innocence-or what bloody little I've left you with. The innocence that belongs to you." A muscle ticked in his jaw. "And your future husband."

"You've taken nothing I haven't freely given."

"Nonetheless, I shouldn't have taken it. I'd resolved I would never touch you. Then, after I did, I resolved it was a mistake, one that couldn't be repeated." He shook his head, closed his eyes, and blew out a long, slow breath. Then he looked at her again. "Clearly it is one thing to resolve not to do something and quite another to follow through on that resolve. But I won't fail again. I will not, cannot make the same mistake again."

Mistake. That's all she was, what they'd shared, to him. "You must think me a terrible wanton."

He shook his head. "No. I take full responsibility. I completely lost control of myself."

"A generous and noble offer, but I cannot allow it. I am just as responsible, if not more so, as I desperately wanted you to lose your control."

Julianne reached out to touch him, but he stepped back, shaking his head. She pressed her empty hands against her midriff, realizing that it wasn't just her hands that were empty. It was everything. Her life. Her heart. Her soul. She felt as if she were trying to hold water in her clenched fists; no matter how hard she gripped, it still trickled through until only emptiness remained.

"Gideon…I have so little time left." She kept her gaze steady on his, fully aware of the desperation creeping into her voice and not caring. "I've been happier in these stolen moments with you than I've ever been in my entire life-"

"Stop. Please." He moved toward her with jerky steps, then cupped her face in his hands. His eyes looked tormented. "God help me, I have no defenses against you. So please don't share any more of yourself, your feelings, with me. Please don't let me see any more of your heart. I don't deserve it, and it's making an already impossible situation even more so." He squeezed his eyes briefly shut then said in a rough whisper, "You have no idea how close to impossible it is for me to walk away as it is."

She reached up and clasped his wrists. "Then don't walk away, Gideon." The words sounded like a desperate plea, but she didn't care. "Let us be together for the next fortnight, until I must leave. I agree it is all we can have of each other. But let us have that much."

His gaze searched hers, and she made no attempt to hide her feelings from him. She let him see all her hopes and wishes, all her wants and needs and desires. All her love. And with her insides jittering with anxiety, she prayed.

Several long seconds passed in silence. Then he slowly released her. And stepped back.

"I can't," he said. "I can't do it to you or myself. If anyone caught wind of this, the scandal would ruin you. You could lose everything."

"And you would lose your honor."

"Yes."

A bitter sound escaped her. There obviously was no point in telling him that, except for creature comforts, she had nothing.

Dear God, how was it possible to hurt so badly when she felt so numb? She managed to jerk her head in a tight nod. "I… I think it's best if I retire now." She pushed the words past the lump clogging her throat, but with the tears pushing behind her eyes she knew her hold on her emotions was tenuous.

Walking as swiftly as she could, she made her way to the blue bedchamber. She heard Gideon walking behind her, heard Caesar trotting next to his master, and Princess Buttercup panting as she jogged to keep up. When they reached her chamber, she scooped up her dog and waited in the corridor while Gideon checked the room.

"All is secure," he said a moment later. "Caesar will remain outside your door. No harm will come to you."

"Thank you," she said tonelessly. No point in telling him the harm had already been done.

And that she'd never, ever be the same.

After seeing Caesar settled in the corridor outside Julianne's door with a command to guard, Gideon entered his bedchamber. He shut the door behind him then leaned back against the oak panel.

Bloody hell. What a night.

He closed his eyes, a mistake, as he was instantly bombarded with the images he desperately wanted, needed to forget. Of Julianne smiling. Laughing. Teaching him to waltz. Lifting her face for his kiss. Succumbing to her climax. Looking at him with her heart in her eyes.

And what had he done to deserve such an adoring look? He had treated her no better than a common doxie and disgraced himself like a green lad to boot.

He forced his eyes open and scrubbed his hands over his face. Damn it, he'd tried not to touch her, but his resistance had worn down, and he'd thought what harm could there be in a simple dance? And he might have made it through the evening without falling on her like a rabid dog, but then she'd shown him that damn box. Her Box of Wishes and Dreams.

Looking at those items that hadn't cost so much as a single shilling, those things she regarded as her most valued treasures, had forced him to «font acknowledge that which he'd adamantly tried to ignore: Julianne was as lovely on the inside as she was on the outside. That she wasn't spoiled and vain but a unique, kind, admirable, vulnerable, and lonely young woman. One with a romantic nature who longed to break free of the social confines she found so suffocating. It was an insight into her character he hadn't wanted to see, to acknowledge, but once it was staring at him so blatantly, he could no longer ignore it.

Any more than he could have ignored her plea for him to kiss her. He pressed the heels of his palms to his forehead. Bloody hell, the way she'd looked at him, touched him, brushed her body against his… it was as if he were gunpowder, and she'd tossed a lit match on him. His control had exploded in a flash fire of want and need and desire so strong, he'd been helpless to stop it. Yet even as he'd given in, dishonored himself and her, a tiny voice in the back of his mind kept chanting, Just one more touch then I'll stop. The problem was that when he perhaps could have stopped, he didn't want to. And when he finally realized he had to stop, he couldn't. His need, his desire had been so sharp-edged, so deep, he'd been utterly helpless against it.

And then her offer… that heart-stopping offer… that they be together, as lovers, until her marriage. Until she left to start her life as another man's wife. Where he'd found the strength to refuse, he didn't know. God knows he'd wanted nothing more than to take what she offered and damn the consequences-which for him were negligible. But Julianne… she stood to lose everything, her innocence being the least of it. The scandal that would erupt, should anyone discover she'd taken a lover, would ruin her. It would only be that more salacious and sordid if the lover proved a lowly commoner like him.

And what did he stand to lose? Nothing.

Well, nothing except his heart.

You lost that two months ago, his inner voice informed him with a hollow laugh. He blew out a long sigh, tried to deny it, then shook his head. What was the point in lying to himself? He'd taken one look at those eyes, that face, and he'd lost his heart right then and there. He hadn't been the same, felt the same, since the moment he'd met her.

But unlike two months ago, when he merely desired her because she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, now that desire had turned into something so much deeper. Yes, he wanted desperately to make love to her, but now he wanted more than that. He wanted to simply be with her. Talk to her. Look at her. Laugh with her. Walk with her. Wanted it all with a bone-deep yearning and an ache he'd never felt before. Not even for Gwen, a woman he'd loved. A woman he'd planned to marry and make a life with. Julianne touched something deep inside him, a spot he hadn't known was there until she came along and proved its existence. Which could only mean one thing.

He didn't merely lust after her. No, he'd bloody well gone and fallen in love with her.

"Arghhhhh," he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. Perhaps there was a bigger idiotic fool in the kingdom, but he sincerely doubted it.

Fallen in love with a woman he could never have. A woman who in a matter of days would be married to another man. Another man who would touch her and bring her to his bed. A man who didn't love her but who would have every right to her. A man who would take her far away to Cornwall. A man who could give her everything-except the things she truly wanted.

His hands fisted as a wave of white-hot jealousy washed over him. The thought of that bastard Eastling touching her made him want to break things. An image of his fists rearranging the duke's perfect nose flashed through his mind; yes, that would be a bloody well perfect thing to break.

The image faded, and a sense of sheer despair and exhaustion washed over him, leaving him physically and mentally drained. He badly needed rest but doubted sleep would come. He crossed the room and looked out the window to the gardens below. The moon cast the area in a silvery glow. Would the "ghost" attempt to enter the room tonight? He hoped so, so he could catch the bastard and put an end to all this. Then he could pick up the pieces of his life that had scattered like feathers in the wind on that fateful day he'd first met Julianne. How he was going to do that, he didn't know. Especially right now, when it hurt to merely breathe.

Determined to focus on why he was here, in this room, he crossed to his portmanteau and withdrew a spool of black thread. Moving back to the French windows, he tied one end to the brass doorknobs, then trailed the spool back to the bed. The darkness in the room rendered the thread invisible. After removing his boots, he lay down on the counterpane then tied the other end of the thread around his wrist. He was a very light sleeper, but because he was so tired, he didn't want to take any chances. If he fell into a deep sleep and the door opened, the string would pull on his wrist and awaken him.

He settled himself in the bed and stifled a groan as her scent surrounded him, inundating his senses. Closing his eyes, he turned his face into her pillow and breathed deeply. Vanilla. And Julianne. Bloody hell, he'd never get any sleep.

For a long time he lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening for the least sound that might be out of place, his thoughts a torturous swirl of recalling moments he needed to forget, futilely yearning for things he couldn't have, uselessly wanting things to be different. If only Julianne were the daughter of a barber or baker. If only he were a nobleman.

If only things were different.

Eventually his eyes grew heavy, and he must have slept, for the next thing he knew, he was bolting upright in the bed, breathing hard, sweat dampening his skin, the dream so fresh in his mind, so vivid, he had to blink several times to realize it was indeed a dream. His gaze flew to the French windows. They remained closed and locked, a filter to the first mauve streaks of dawn staining the sky. Then he looked at his wrist to which the thread remained tied and undisturbed.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and ran shaking fingers through his hair, widening his eyes to keep them from closing. Because he sure as hell didn't want to see the image in his dream again. The image of Julianne, trapped inside a glass coffin, screaming and pounding on the glass, begging to be set free. And himself, tossing shovelful after shovelful of dirt onto her glass coffin.