Beauty and the Blacksmith (Spindle Cove #3.5)(25)
Author: Tessa Dare

No sooner had her climax ebbed than he was backing away, yanking at the buttons on his trousers and cursing his boots as he stripped to his skin. He pushed her shift to the waist, gazing boldly on her most intimate places. But before she could think to squirm or shy from him, he’d settled atop her again.

His thighs were hard against hers, and covered with hair, much like his chest. The smooth, broad crown of his manhood prodded at her core.

He groaned. “I . . . I don’t know that I can wait much longer.”

“I think we’ve both waited long enough.”

His hips flexed, and he pushed forward.

Inside her.

She buried her face in his neck, determined not to cry out.

He cursed. “It will be better next time. I promise.”

It hurt. It hurt fiercely—so much that only the tang of blood made her aware that she’d bitten her lip.

It will be better next time, she consoled herself as a series of slow, persistent thrusts took him deeper. Brought them closer. It will be better next time.

But once she’d reconciled herself to the promise of Next time. . .

This time started to feel rather good.

She wouldn’t climax again. That wasn’t even a question. But the sublime feeling of being needed, desired, loved with such vigor and passion . . . this was a new, intoxicating pleasure all its own. She held him tight, loving the feel of his flexing, straining muscles as he buried his length deep at the heart of her, then strove to go deeper still.

His motions quickened, grew less elegant and controlled. Her breathing was labored in a way that would have alarmed her in her youth.

Not anymore.

He kept his weight balanced on his elbows, and she curled her neck to kiss him on the chest, the neck . . . anywhere she could reach. She ran her tongue along his collarbone, feeling brazen and seductive.

With a strangled groan, he slid one hand to her backside, holding her tight for a final barrage of thrusts. His face twisted into a mask of torturous pleasure.

At last, he slumped atop her, growling and shuddering with the force of completion. Filling her deep.

He remained inside her, slowly softening as his labored breath caressed her neck.

He was quiet and still for a long, long time. Because they’d earned this, too—this refuge in each other. In all her life, she’d never felt so perfectly loved and safe.

“You can’t know,” he finally whispered into her hair. “You can’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

She turned her head, seeking his kiss. “I think I have some idea.”

CHAPTER 11

Diana slept late the next morning. She assumed everyone in the Queen’s Ruby would.

She’d been back safe in her own bed for less than an hour before the carriages had rattled into the village center. The girls had come tromping up the stairs, giggling and whispering to one another. It would seem they’d managed to have their fun without Diana’s help. She was glad of it. Part of her had been tempted to come out of her room and ask for all the details. She wanted to hear all the news of Kate and Minerva.

But she’d decided there would be time enough for those questions in the morning. Her night with Aaron had left her blissfully sapped of strength, and she was supposed to be ill.

So when Charlotte had opened her door a crack and whispered a cautious “Diana?”she hadn’t answered but pretended to be asleep. And then she’d fallen asleep in truth.

She slept hard. Her body had earned it.

When she woke, she could hear the sounds of breakfast. Her chamber was situated directly above the dining room, and she knew well that distant murmur of porcelain and cutlery, delivered on air scented of buttered toast.

She rose, washed, and dressed in her favorite frock, then clattered down the stairs.

No, not clattered.

She floated down the stairs.

She was in love. She was getting married. She would have a sweet little cottage in this village she’d come to think of as home, and she and Aaron would build a life and a family together. It might not be the future her mother had planned, but it was more happiness than Diana had ever dreamed she’d grasp.

And by the end of today, everyone would know the truth.

In the corridor, she slowed, intrigued by the sounds coming from the dining room.

“She’s coming,” someone whispered.

A roar of shushing ensued. There was a rattle of panicked flatware.

Then Diana turned the corner and entered the dining room, and everyone fell completely, eerily silent.

“My goodness,” she said. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

One of the girls set down her spoon. “See, I told you she’d know nothing about it. It couldn’t have been her.”

“Hush, Fanny.” Miss Price cleared her throat and looked Diana over. “You look quite well this morning, Miss Highwood. One would never know you were ill last night.”

“Thank you.” Diana spoke slowly, not liking the suspicious tone in Miss Price’s voice. “I am feeling much improved.”

All of the ladies regarded her warily, even as they sent speaking glances to each other.

Diana’s heart began to pound.

Oh, Lord. They knew. They all knew. Someone had noticed her sneaking out to see Aaron. Or sneaking back in afterward.

“I don’t believe it of her,” one girl whispered.

“But it couldn’t have been anyone else,” another replied.

“It’s probably a compulsion. I’ve heard of it happening with some girls. They know it’s wrong, but they can’t help themselves.”

A compulsion?

No, no, no. Diana wasn’t suffering any compulsion. She was in love. She was floating. That’s what she’d wanted everyone to see today. Not sordidness.

Instead, they all looked at her sideways and whispered behind their hands.

This was ruination, she realized. Her twenty-three years of delicate refinement didn’t matter anymore. Everyone stared at her with revulsion and fear in their eyes. As though her pretty blue frock had been soiled with soot—and if they came too close, it might stain them, too.

She felt truly ill now. What would they think of her? What would this mean for Charlotte?

One thing was certain—their image of the perfect Miss Highwood was now irretrievably shattered.

Miss Price elbowed her neighbor. “Do it. Someone has to ask.”

“I’ll do it. I’m the landlady. It should be me.” Dear old Mrs. Nichols rose from her seat and clasped her hands together in an attitude of prayer. “Diana, dear,” she began gently. “Did you have anything to tell us? Anything at all, about last night?”