The Wallflower’s Wild Wedding (The Wallflower Wins Book 3) Page 8

  Her hands folded into fists and she darted her gaze along his nude chest and the sheet twisted about his body. A shout tore from him.

  She did not know what to do.

  Should she shake him?

  She tried calling his name. “Hollybrook!” she called loudly. “Wake up. You’re dreaming.”

  He did not wake up. His muscled chest drew concave as he pulled in a shuddering breath.

  She tried again. “Hollybrook!” she called, this time more desperate.

  He threw an arm over his head, wincing.

  She did not wish to get too close, knowing that he was incredibly strong. A single blow from his hand could knock her senseless. And she did not wish him to feel guilt for doing something he had done in his sleep.

  Instead, she maneuvered herself by the headboard, standing behind his shoulder, just beside his head. She leaned a little bit closer and shoved his shoulder. Hard. “Wake!” she implored.

  He jolted. His eyes snapped open and a harsh breath exhaled from his throat.

  “Hollybrook?” she prompted.

  His eyes blinked wide.

  Oh so slowly and groggily, he turned towards her. His entire demeanor sank, his shoulders slumping.

  And then he caught her gaze before he swung his own away.

  “Was I dreaming?” he asked, his voice full of dread.

  “Indeed you were, Hollybrook,” she replied gently, daring to place her hand on his hard shoulder. “You looked as if you were having the worst of nightmares. Are you unwell?”

  “I am not unwell,” he said, hollowly. “But I am plagued by nightmares. I am sorry that you were witness to it. I did not intend to have such a… I do not know what caused me to…”

  His voice broke.

  “It does not matter,” she rushed in, hating to see him in such pain. “All is well now; you have awoken. We all have nightmares, do we not?”

  He nodded, turning his face towards the window.

  Eloise stood for a moment longer and then realized how utterly foolish it was. Slowly, she eased herself to sit beside him, her hand still gentle on his shoulder.

  He didn’t acknowledge her.

  “But yours seemed particularly grim,” she observed, unable to deny the fact that she had never seen such pain in her life. Or heard such anguish from another being.

  Her whole existence had been rather sheltered. She knew it, though she had not been permitted to have any sort of adventure. She had also therefore been protected from the more jarring pain of the world.

  Hollybrook, on the other hand, had not.

  Oh, it was true he was a debauched rake with a wild reputation. But all London knew he’d been a hero on the battlefield before he had returned to London when his father died.

  She found herself wondering if he was tormented by some past memory of war.

  She wondered if she should ask; would he dislike her probing his vulnerability? Or would it be a good thing?

  There was only one thing to do.

  Eloise raised her hand and gently stroked his wild hair back from his strong face. “Tell me about it. I am here. And I wish to help.”

  The touch seemed to stun him, and he met her gaze with an openness that stole her breath.

  In that moment, she saw the kind boy he must have been who’d been shoved into pain and cruelty.

  He blinked, as if regretting that he had allowed her to see that side of him. He snorted. “A young lady knows nothing of what can help me.”

  “Perhaps not,” she agreed without offense, “but nor can I do harm. Were you thinking of something in the past?”

  “Of course,” he ground out, shoving himself up onto his forearm. “Aren’t we all controlled by our pasts?”

  The sheet slipped down to his hips and silver light cascaded over his Herculean form.

  She paid little heed to it, though she had never seen a man in his bed without attire. Her heart ached too much for him to think of how beautiful he looked in his bed.

  “I suppose,” she began carefully, wishing to draw him out and not say anything foolish. “But mine was so uneventful that it rarely bothers my dreams. My dreams are all of imagined horrors.”

  She hesitated, then dared, “But I think you, on the other hand, have perhaps seen frightening things?”

  He said nothing, and his face remained grim. A muscle tightened in his jaw, but then he relented. “Indeed, I have.” A wave of pain seemed to crash over him, and he rasped, “I have seen things which might make the most hardened men shudder with horror.”

  “I am sorry for it,” she whispered, her throat tightening with sorrow for him.

  He gave a tight nod, clearly unwilling to accept sympathy. “Thank you.”

  “You need not keep it from me,” she urged gently, sliding her hand down to his, twining her fingers with his, waiting to see if he would accept her gesture. “I promise I shall not faint away like some silly chit of a girl.”

  Hollybrook looked down at their hands together, his strong and hard, hers delicate and small. A look of wonder crossed his face. “I could never imagine you as a silly chit of a girl, Eloise,” he breathed. “You may be a girl, you may be young, you may be inexperienced, but you’re not silly. And you’re not a fool. You may be wiser than any other person I’ve ever met. I appreciate your honesty, your candor, your passion.”

  Any reply she might have formulated disappeared under his esteem.

  He saw her thus?

  She did not know what to say. She’d never been given such praise in her entire life. And that a man as experienced of the wide world as he should give it to her? She was astonished.

  She studied their linked hands too, feeling it was more than a simple touch. That this was the beginning of something. Something more intimate. And she longed for it. The rough touch of his palm upon hers was heaven. The warmth of his skin as vital to her as the sun.

  This was what she wanted too. To be close to him.

  “Was it very bad?” she asked simply. “Your time serving as a soldier?”

  He contemplated her. “I think it is the right thing to do, to give service to one’s country,” he began quietly. “But there are times when one must do things that do not feel honorable. War is not the stuff of boyhood legends and tin soldiers.”

  There was nothing she could say to this that would have any meaning, so instead she leaned closer, her curled hair spilling over her shoulder, caressing his arm. She urged him on with her eyes.

  It worked, for he whispered, “I have seen children die in war. I have seen boys fall on the field of battle. Boys who have had no chance at life. And while some might think that to be quite normal. . .” He sucked in a shaking breath. “I can never think it so.”

  Tears burned her eyes and she wished she could take his pain away. But she could not. All she could do was listen.

  His stare grew distant as he continued. “I went to war for the honor of my father. I did my duty, but I shall never forget the cruelty of it. It is nothing like they say in the books. It is not about songs and glory and gold. No, it is about men fighting tooth and nail for a bit of land that wealthy men want. They die for it on fields far from home, their blood watering the earth.” His voice grew ragged. “It breaks my heart.”

  “I am so sorry,” she said and before she could stop herself, she leaned down and kissed the back of his hand. And then, carefully, she rested her cheek atop his hand, waiting for him to continue.

  Her gentle acceptance seemed to prompt him. “When I think of so many of the stories that I’ve been raised on. On Arthur, Charlemagne, Alexander, Shakespeare’s kings, on ancient chieftains. So often, those men were fighting for their hearth and their home. And I admired that. Even now, we are fighting against a despot. Napoleon is a man who is intent on tyrannizing all of Europe. I see that it will happen. And he does not care what price must be paid for him to be a great man.”

  He spoke with increasing fervor as if driven, but then he ceased. Slowly, he raised his free hand a
nd stroked her hair.

  “I must admit,” he said, “I am heartbroken for all of the young men who will never know the fulfillment of their dreams.”

  The depth of regret in his voice was such that she caught her breath. “Is that why you’re helping me?” she asked. “Because you wish to see my dreams fulfilled when you have seen so many go unfulfilled?”

  “How very observant of you, Eloise,” he mused. “I knew you were intelligent, but you deduced my motives quite easily.”

  She lifted her head and met his wounded gaze. “You, sir, are not at all what you would have society think.”

  “And what is that?” he asked flatly.

  “A good man with a great heart.” She blinked back tears, knowing he would not wish them. “Perhaps the greatest heart in all of England.”

  “That is a foolish thing to say,” he said softly. “The only foolish thing you’ve ever said, dear Eloise.”

  “It is not,” she protested lightly. “You just do not wish to recognize it is true. The way you have helped me. The kindness you’ve shown me, with no desire for anything in return.”

  His gaze fell to their entwined hands again. “How do you know that I don’t desire something in return, Eloise?”

  Her breath caught in her throat, and suddenly she longed for him to lower his mouth to her bare skin. “Do you?” she asked, her voice a mere wisp.

  “Perhaps I do,” he said. He lifted his gaze then, his eyes crackling as he swept his look over her. “Perhaps I cannot resist you.”

  She laughed, a half groan, for no man could mean such a thing about her. “I refuse to take those words into account. You are simply trying to shock me now, and not accept that you are a good man. Resist me, indeed,” she teased lightly. “I am no siren, Hollybrook.”

  “St. John,” he replied, his voice low and fluid as sin. “Eloise, I am not some schoolboy to be caught up in a young girl’s dreams. But apparently I cannot play the rogue in this. Nor will I hear you laugh at yourself. This is dangerous. I want you as I should not allow myself to do.”

  The pulse of her heart grew so rapidly, she could hear the beating of it in her blood. Her lips parted slightly as his words fell upon her. He wanted her?

  “I must confess. . .” She wet her lips. “I must confess. . .” For all her previous boldness, she could not quite say it.

  “What?” he prompted, his brow furrowing. “What do you wish to confess? Keep in mind, I am no Father Confessor. I may not be as honorable as you think.”

  “I wish to understand why so many ladies have thrown themselves at your feet.”

  “Oh good God,” he groaned, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling.

  “What?” she demanded, worried she had said something utterly unreasonable. “Is it such a terrible thing to say? To wonder at the mystery of it all?”

  “Eloise,” he said before he let out a long breath. “Of course, you are curious about what transpires between a man and a woman. Our society does not do a good job in preparing either young women or men for such things, specifically young ladies. But still, please do not ask me this. I am clinging to honor by a thread.”

  “Whyever not?” she said, astonished.

  “I do not wish to be your teacher in things carnal in this regard. For I shall struggle to stay in theory only.”

  She frowned. “Why in theory only?”

  “Because,” he pointed out, his free hand adjusting the sheets over his body, “if I theorize about this, I will discuss how very desirable you are to me. How much I desire to be the one who give you pleasure.”

  “You wish to give me pleasure?” she stated, blinking.

  “Indeed, Eloise. I do. And the truth is,” he said, “I already do wish to make love to you. I already wish to show you the why of which you ask.”

  “Then let us not theorize,” she ventured. “Let us bring it into action. Show me why they throw themselves at your feet.”

  “That makes me sound bloody arrogant.”

  “Is it false?”

  He stared back at her. “No.”

  “Then it is merely fact that ladies seek you out for their pleasure. Why does that preclude me?”

  “You will be my mistress in reality.”

  “All of society is to think that Estella Cartwright is your mistress,” she pointed out, realizing how much she wanted him. This. “Why can’t I be your mistress in truth?”

  “I don’t wish to ruin you,” he insisted.

  “You already have. I already have,” she stated without recrimination. “You have introduced me to the very people that my family would forbid my interaction with, as would society. Please, I wish for the passion of the opera. The passion of you. Please do not deny it to me out of a misguided sense of propriety.”

  And then he said something which shocked her.

  “I’m afraid that if we begin this,” he whispered, caressing his thumb over her fingers, “that it will not end well.”

  Slowly, she raised herself and inched closer to him until she bent over his body, her lips but a few inches from his. “I do not know the future. Nor do you, sir. All we can do is engage in the present.”

  “Good God,” he groaned as if she was engaging him in the worst of tortures. “You are terribly wise for your years.”

  “You keep making it sound as if I am a girl!” she exclaimed. “I am six and twenty years of age. I am much older than many married young ladies. And I am tired of being in ignorance on this affair. I’m not likely to marry, and you are denying me—”

  “Cease,” he proclaimed. “I do not wish to deny you. And I do not wish to belittle you,” he added gently. “But I also do not wish to hurt you.”

  “I do not think you shall hurt me,” she assured. “I cannot think of anyone else I would rather learn this with than you. Do not make me find out from someone else.”

  His face tensed at the words “someone else.”

  “That,” he said, “is the most horrible thing for me to hear. You know all too well how to maneuver me to do as you wish.”

  “Do I?” she teased.

  His face darkened. “Yes, because the idea of you with someone else is…”

  “Is what?” she prompted.

  “Impossible,” he growled out, pulling her into his arms. “Infuriating,” he said against the curve of her throat. “I wish to have you only for myself.”

  “Well…” She savored the feel of him pressed against her. “Please do.”

  “Damnation, Eloise, you are more seductive than any wanton woman of the town,” he whispered as he kissed the line of her throat. “And you aren’t even trying.”

  “I’m simply being honest,” she gasped, stunned by the delicious feelings tingling between her thighs as he slid his mouth along her skin.

  With that, he slid his hand to the soft curls at the back of her neck and tilted her head to the side.

  He pulled her down and turned her onto the bed. A gaze full of hunger met hers and she felt as if she was about to be consumed. Something that should have been frightening, but it wasn’t.

  She wished it.

  She wished it with all her being.

  Then he took her mouth with his.

  And the pure fire and power of it heated her at her very core, like stoked embers.

  She gave in to that kiss, opening her mouth, taking him, kiss after wicked kiss. He stole away all rational thought. Then much to her amazement, she began to kiss him in turn.

  Her hands went to his shoulders. She pulled him close, and she gave in with every bit of her being. And oh, it felt like heaven.

  Chapter 13

  St. John was not supposed to feel for the woman he had sworn to protect, the woman he had determined to assist in the pursuit of her dreams.

  But he did.

  Devil that it made him.

  There was no questioning it.

  When she’d so passionately petitioned for him to teach her what she wished to know, he found he could not deny her cho
ice and desire. . . And of course, there was his own desire for her that he found he no longer wished to restrain.

  Self-serving as it might be, it was also. . . what she wished.

  It would be the worst kind of patronizing to reduce her desires to that of one who could not decide for themselves.

  Miss Eloise Edgington could most certainly decide for herself. She was a woman who knew herself and what she wanted, far more than most of the ton.

  She deserved to be treated with respect. Bloody hell, she was a person to be consulted. Not a thing to be managed.

  He gazed down upon her, the moon’s light embracing them. Its silvery hue lent her golden curls an ethereal glow.

  It was damned difficult to believe this moment was real.

  For, he felt more passion and more himself than he had ever before with another person.

  St. John wound her tightly in his arms, loving every moment as he stole her mouth in a hot kiss. She sparked something in him that no one else had ever triggered.

  He’d felt the need to keep himself in reserve over the years, never letting anyone see his true self.

  The rake’s rake that he was had allowed him a certain anonymity.

  But this was different.

  She was meant to be a mistress in name only. A pretend thing.

  This? Now? It was real.

  She was the mistress of his heart. It was exhilarating and terrifying, all at once.

  Determined to show her the pleasure that seemed to come as second nature to him, he leaned back slightly and made short work of her robe and night rail.

  She blinked, surprised no doubt at the haste with which he whisked it from her body.

  “Perfection,” he whispered, tracing his fingertips, oh, so slowly from the hollow at her throat to the valley of her pale breasts.

  She stared up at him, wide-eyed. “There is no such thing as–”

  “You are perfect, Eloise,” he cut in. How he wished her to know it!

  Gently, he slid his fingers lightly over her breasts, skimming her rose-tinted nipples, teasing down her rib cage then to the curve of her hips.

  Her breasts rose and fell in a great breath.