Page 103 of Oddity of the Ton
Minutes later, she’d completed a line drawing of a naked woman. Then she initialed it, tore it from the page, and handed it to him.
“I’ll treasure it,” he said. “And have no fear—I’ll keep it concealed in my chamber. I’ll not ruin your reputation by letting it fall into the wrong hands. My chamber is my haven, in which I shut out the rest of the world.”
“Is that why you made love to me here, instead of your chamber?” she asked.
He let out a soft chuckle. “I had a more practical reason for bringing you here. I asked Mrs. Adams to set your chamber apart from the other guests—I thought you’d prefer the quiet. Had we made love inmychamber, the rest of the guests would have heard you screaming my name.”
“Oh.”
“In fact,” he said, shifting closer, “I’m minded to hear my name on your lips again. I find I’m ready for you again.”
It was folly to make love a second time. The taste of pleasure at his hands was like an opiate—the first rush of ecstasy, followed by an ever-increasing need for more, until she grew dependent and was driven mad for need of it.
And then, when the opiate was taken from her forever…
But she would accept the pain of withdrawal to have him inside her again—just once more. And the pleasure would be tenfold now she understood the joy of sharing her body with a man she loved.
“Very well,” she said. “Let us make the most of tonight.”
The second time, pleasure came quickly. He mounted her swiftly, slipping inside her with ease, then, with a few sharp thrusts, brought her to climax. After they crested the wave, he pulled her to him and held her in his arms, their bodies sticky with sweat, while their breathing steadied.
As she drifted into sleep once more, he caressed her hair in an absent-minded gesture.
“I love you, Eleanor.”
She caught her breath. Had he spoken? Or had she heard an echo of a dream, fulfilling a wish that could never come true? She waited several heartbeats. Then, with a soft sigh, she drifted into sleep once more.
The next time she woke, her maid was bustling about the room, drawing the curtains and chivying her to prepare for the journey home. Her clothes were neatly folded in a pile on a chair, and beneath them, her sketchbook. There was no sign that Montague had even been there.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Monty raised hishand in farewell and watched the carriages disappear as they turned a corner at the bottom of the drive.
He was due to follow them to London, but he would have to endure three days alone at Rosecombe.
Three days withouther.
That morning, before dawn, he’d slipped out of Eleanor’s chamber and returned to his chamber. He’d almost been caught by a kitchen maid as she shuffled along the hallway, coal scuttle in hand, to light the fire in the breakfast room. Servants should have more to fear from an encounter with their master above stairs, but he was the one who’d hidden behind a curtain, his heart racing, while the girl scurried past.
“I trust you’ve ended your engagement, Montague.”
He winced at the disapproval in his mother’s tone.
“No, Mother. Not yet. We’ve agreed to end it after I return to London.”
“Why prolong it?” she asked. “It’s time you found a proper bride.”
“Proper?”
“One more suited to you.”
“You mean one more suited toyou, Mother,” he said, unable to temper his irritation. “It’s a pity you can’t find a perfect little debutante and marry her yourself.”
“Don’t be petulant, it doesn’t suit you,” she said. “I had no objection to Miss Howard as an individual.”
Monty snorted. “Who are you trying to fool?”
“I admit I didn’t think much of her at first, but she’s intelligent—at least for a young woman. Had she a title, I might have grown to like her, in time.”
