Page 12 of The Earl’s Scarred Bride (Taming the Gillets #2)

CHAPTER TWELVE

C ecil stared unseeing at the ledger before him, his mind drifting far from the columns of numbers. He was losing control, and he knew it. His wife had become a dangerous distraction—consuming his thoughts at the most inopportune moments. What had begun as a calculated seduction was becoming something far more perilous. He was developing feelings he couldn't afford to acknowledge.

These moments of weakness were unacceptable. He was the Earl of Stonefield, not some lovesick youth to be swept away by a pair of green eyes and a sharp tongue. He needed to maintain distance, to remember the original terms of their arrangement. Three months. An heir. Nothing more.

Yet even as he tried to steel himself, images of Elizabeth invaded his mind—the way she managed his household with quiet competence, her unexpected wit, the soft gasp she made when he touched her just so...

Damn it all.

He gripped his pen more tightly, determined to focus on the accounts before him.

"My lord?" Mr. Harrison's impatient tone suggested it wasn't the first time he'd tried to get Cecil's attention. "These accounts require your immediate?—"

A soft knock at the study door made Cecil's pulse quicken embarrassingly. He knew that knock.

"Enter," he called, perhaps too eagerly.

Elizabeth appeared in the doorway, a becoming pink staining her cheeks. She wore a simple morning dress in pale blue that somehow made her more alluring than any ball gown. "I apologize for interrupting, but I wondered if you might have time for..." She glanced at Mr. Harrison and faltered. "It can wait."

"No," Cecil said quickly, rising from his desk. "Mr. Harrison was just leaving."

The accountant clutched his papers protectively. "My lord, these matters are most urgent?—"

"Not as urgent as my wife." Cecil's tone brooked no argument. He fixed Harrison with a look that had sent bolder men scurrying. "We'll continue tomorrow."

Harrison opened his mouth as if to protest further, but something in Cecil's expression made him think better of it. With a stiff bow to Elizabeth and a rather sulky one to Cecil, he gathered his things and departed.

When the door closed behind him, Cecil turned his full attention to his wife. She still hovered uncertainly near the threshold, her fingers twisting in her skirts. "You mentioned something about dancing lessons?"

Her blush deepened. "I thought...that is, if you're not too busy..."

"I'm never too busy for you." The words emerged more intensely than he'd intended. To cover his slip, he moved to clear space in the center of the study, pushing chairs aside. "Though I must warn you, I'm a demanding instructor."

"So I've noticed," she murmured, and the slight huskiness in her voice made his blood heat.

Cecil held out his hand, and after only a moment's hesitation, she placed her smaller one in his palm. The simple touch sent awareness spiraling through him. How was it possible that this woman affected him so powerfully with the merest contact?

He drew her closer, positioning them for a waltz. "We'll start with the basic steps. Place your hand here..." He guided her palm to his shoulder, fighting back a shiver as her fingers curled into the fabric of his coat. "And I'll place mine here." His own hand settled at her waist, perhaps a bit lower than strictly proper.

Her breath hitched. "Like this?"

"Perfect." He began leading her through the steps, though in truth she moved with natural grace. He'd known at the ball that she'd been lying about her dancing abilities. "One-two-three, one-two-three...you see? You're a natural."

"Only because you make it easy." She glanced up at him through her lashes, then quickly away. "I don't want to embarrass you again. At the ball, when everyone was watching..."

Cecil's jaw tightened as he remembered the whispers, the sideways glances that had made her shrink into herself. "You could never embarrass me," he said roughly. "Those gossips are merely jealous that I managed to secure the most fascinating woman in London as my wife."

Her step faltered. "You don't mean that."

"Don't I?" He pulled her closer, propriety be damned. "Why would I lie?"

"Because..." She swallowed hard. "Because of my scar. Because I'm not what anyone expected for the Earl of Stonefield."

"No," he agreed, his voice dropping lower as he bent his head toward hers. "You're far more than I expected."

Elizabeth's breath caught. They had stopped dancing, though his hand still burned at her waist, his thumb tracing small circles that made her shiver. "Cecil..."

"Yes?" His voice was low, dangerous, filled with an intimacy that made her pulse race.

She struggled to maintain her composure. "We should continue dancing," she managed, though her body betrayed her by leaning slightly closer.

Cecil's smile held a predatory edge. "Are you afraid of what might happen if we stop?"

"Afraid?" Elizabeth lifted her chin, trying to summon her earlier bravado. "Of what, precisely?"

"Of this." His hand moved higher, fingers brushing the sensitive skin just above her waist. "Of how your body responds to me when I'm this close."

"I'm not responding to anything," she protested, even as a flush crept up her neck.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "Your pulse tells a different story." His fingers traced the line of her neck, following her racing heartbeat. "Tell me truly, Elizabeth. What are you afraid of?"

She swallowed hard. "I'm not afraid."

"Then why do you tremble?" Cecil's voice dropped lower, more intimate. "Why can't you look me in the eye?"

Elizabeth forced herself to meet his gaze, her breath catching at the intensity she found there. "Because you make it impossible to think clearly."

"Good," he murmured. "I'd hate to be the only one so affected."

"Is that what this is?" she challenged, finding a spark of her earlier spirit. "A game to see who can unsettle the other more?"

Cecil's laugh was rich and low. "Perhaps. Though I'm beginning to think you enjoy our little battles as much as I do."

"Enjoy?" Elizabeth's indignation was only half-feigned. "You're impossible."

"Your scar," he murmured, his free hand rising to trace the air just above the mark, not quite touching but close enough that she could feel the heat of his skin. "Do you know what I think when I look at it?"

She shook her head mutely.

"I think of how brave you are. How strong." His fingers finally made contact, following the path down her neck with exquisite gentleness. "How every mark, every imperfection only makes you more beautiful to me."

A small sound escaped her throat—something between a gasp and a whimper that made his blood surge. "May I touch you, Elizabeth?"

Her eyes, dark with desire, met his. "Yes."

Cecil's control snapped at that single word. He pulled her flush against him, one hand tangling in her hair while the other pressed against the small of her back. Her softness molded to his harder frame perfectly, as if she'd been made for him.

"Tell me to stop," he growled against her throat, his lips tracing the path his fingers had taken. "Tell me this isn't what you want."

But Elizabeth's only response was to arch into him, her hands clutching his shoulders as he explored the sensitive skin of her neck. When his teeth grazed her pulse point, she gasped his name.

The sound undid him completely. He backed her toward his desk, lifting her to sit on its edge. Ledgers and papers scattered to the floor, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Not when she was looking at him with such trust, such naked want in her eyes.

"You're exquisite," he murmured, his hands sliding down her sides to her hips. "Every inch of you deserves to be worshipped."

Her cheeks flushed beautifully at his words. "Cecil, please..."

"Please what, hmmm?" He pressed open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, relishing how she trembled beneath his touch. "Tell me what you want."

"I..." She broke off with a moan as his hands slid beneath her skirts, caressing her ankles, her calves, the sensitive skin behind her knees. "I want you to touch me. Everywhere."

"As my lady commands," he breathed, sinking to his knees before her. His hands slid higher beneath her skirts, caressing the silken skin of her thighs. Her breath came in short pants now, her head falling back as he explored her with reverent touches.

Cecil had known pleasure before, had taken his fill of willing women in his rakish days. But nothing compared to this—to the sight of his proud, proper wife coming undone beneath his hands. To the way she trembled and gasped his name, her fingers threading through his hair as he worshipped her with his mouth.

She was magnificent in her abandon, all trace of insecurity forgotten as pleasure overtook her. When she shattered beneath his touch, crying out his name like a prayer, Cecil felt something shift inside his chest—something dangerous and wonderful that he wasn't ready to examine too closely.

He pressed one last kiss to her inner thigh before rising, drinking in the sight of her. Her hair had come partially loose, dark curls framing her flushed face. Her lips were parted, swollen from where she'd bitten them to keep quiet. She had never looked more beautiful.

Cecil, still kneeling before Elizabeth, let his hands linger on her thighs, feeling the delicate tremors that rippled through her muscles. He looked up at her, his eyes dark with desire and something more profound—a reverence that neither of them had expected. Her cheeks were flushed, her breath coming in shallow gasps, and her eyes held a mixture of anticipation and vulnerability that stirred something deep within him.

Slowly, deliberately, he let his hands slide higher, the warmth of her skin seeping into his palms like a brand. He could feel her heartbeat, quick and erratic, through his fingertips. The sensation was intoxicating, a powerful awareness that he was the cause of her undoing.

"Elizabeth," he whispered, his voice a low rasp. "Look at me."

She opened her eyes, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks, and met his gaze. The depth of emotion in her eyes was nearly his undoing. He leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of her knee, feeling her shiver beneath his touch.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, his breath warm against her skin.

She nodded, her eyes never leaving his. "Yes," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper.

Encouraged, Cecil let his fingers dance higher, tracing the soft skin of her inner thighs. He could feel the heat radiating from her core, the subtle moisture that gathered as her desire grew. It was a heady sensation, knowing that she was aroused by him, that her body responded to his touch with such eager abandon.

He let his lips follow the path of his fingers, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along her thighs, feeling the way her muscles quivered beneath his touch. He inhaled deeply, the scent of her arousal filling his senses, making his own desire surge and throb. But he held back, determination swelling within him. This moment was not about his pleasure; it was about hers, about showing her just how cherished and desired she was.

As he approached the apex of her thighs, Elizabeth's breath hitched, her fingers tightening in his hair. He paused, looking up at her with a question in his eyes. She nodded almost imperceptibly, her lips parting on a silent gasp as he let his breath fan over her most intimate place.

Cecil felt a wave of tenderness and awe as he marveled at her trust, her surrender. With a gentle touch, he parted her folds, revealing the glistening pink flesh that lay hidden. He couldn't help the small groan that escaped him at the sight, the sheer beauty of her making his chest ache.

He leaned in, letting his tongue delve slowly, carefully along her slit. She tasted like the sweetest nectar, like something ethereal and forbidden. Her gasp echoed through the room, her fingers clenching convulsively in his hair as she arched towards him."Cecil," she whispered, his name a plea and a prayer. He hummed softly against her, the vibration making her shudder. With deliberate slowness, he began to explore her with his tongue, learning the intricacies of her body, the places that made her gasp and squirm.

He paid close attention to her reactions, to the way her breath hitched when he circled her clit, to the way her hips arched when he dipped his tongue into her entrance. It was a dance of discovery, a sensual journey that he reveled in, each shiver and moan from her a victory that made his heart soar.

As he continued his ministrations, he let his hands wander, caressing the soft curves of her thighs, her hips, her abdomen. He could feel the way her muscles tensed and relaxed under his touch, the way her body was coiling with pleasure. It was a beautiful sight, the way she surrendered to him, trusting him completely.

He focused his attention on her clit, letting his tongue flick and tease the sensitive bundle of nerves. Elizabeth's breath grew more ragged, her fingers tightening in his hair as she held him close. He could feel the way her body was building towards release, the subtle tensing of her muscles, the increasing wetness under his tongue.

He slid a finger inside her, marveling at the way her inner walls clenched around him. She was so warm, so tight, so utterly perfect. He began to move his finger in a slow rhythm, matching the strokes of his tongue against her clit. The dual sensations made her cry out, her body arching towards him as she sought more.

More. The word echoed through his mind like a mantra. He wanted more of her, more of this, more of the mindless pleasure he could give her. He added a second finger, stretching her gently, feeling the way her body welcomed him with slick heat. He curled his fingers, finding that secret place inside her that made her gasp and shudder.

"Cecil," she moaned, his name a desperate plea. "Please..."

He recognized the signs of her impending release, increasing his ministrations with practiced skill. When Elizabeth finally came undone, it was with a breathless cry that seemed to release all the tension between them. Her body trembled, muscles clenching as waves of pleasure swept through her.

Cecil watched her carefully, noting the way her skin flushed, her breath coming in soft, uneven gasps. There was something deeply satisfying in bringing her to this moment of complete surrender. He pressed one last, gentle kiss to her inner thigh before rising to his feet. The sight of her, so utterly undone, so thoroughly pleasured, made something in his chest swell. He had never cared so much about another person's pleasure, had never found such joy in giving himself completely over to their needs.

Elizabeth looked up at him, her eyes soft and dazed, her cheeks flushed a beautiful pink. She reached out a hand, her fingers brushing against his cheek. "Cecil," she whispered, her voice still breathless. "That was...I've never..."

"Shh," he murmured, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her lips. He could taste her on his mouth, a sweet reminder of the gift she had given him. "You don't need to say anything."

She nodded, her eyes never leaving his. The trust, the warmth, the love in her gaze was nearly overwhelming. He felt a surge of something deep and powerful, a need to protect her, to cherish her, to make her his in every way.

He stepped back, his eyes wandering over her. She looked utterly ravished, her hair loose and wild, her dress rumpled and askew. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. His fingers itched to touch her again, to explore every inch of her, to claim every part of her as his own.

But he pulled back, the intensity of his own desire making him retreat. He knew if he stayed, he would take her completely, would claim her body with his own.

"The dance lesson is over," Cecil said, his voice rough with restrained desire. He stepped back, putting distance between them. "I should go."

Elizabeth reached for him, confusion and hurt flashing across her features. "Cecil?—"

But he was already moving away, straightening his clothing with trembling hands. He paused at the door, unable to look directly at her. "Before I forget myself entirely," he added softly, then fled his own study like a coward.

In the corridor, he leaned against the wall, his breath coming in harsh pants.

What was happening to him?

Since when did the notorious Earl of Stonefield run from a willing woman?