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Standard disclaimer.
Very early the next morning, Gwen woke in the darkness.
She wrapped her body in a dressing gown, lit a taper, and made her way downstairs to the library.
She didn't find the man she'd spent a fitful night, alternately worrying over and dreaming about. But she found something almost as intriguing...the naughty books.
She plucked a volume from the shelf, built a fire in the grate, and settled in.
An hour or so later, she was immersed in a scandalous encounter...a dairymaid's lover, had his hands under her skirts and was questing determinedly higher...when the library door swung open, with a whoosh of freezing air.
She startled, whipping her head up.
Her attention was ripped from the story roughly, unevenly...like a sheet of pasted paper, torn loose.
Little scraps of lewdness clung to her. She was blushing so fiercely, she worried her cheeks would glow in the dark.
Thank goodness the intruder wasn't the duchess or a servant.
Only Arthur.
But she couldn't call him 'only Arthur.' He could never be 'only' anything. The intruder was life-altering, heart-muddling, oft-maddening Arthur.
And she didn't know what they'd make of each other, after all that happened yesterday.
He tossed her a brief, dark look.
And she couldn't tell whether he was glad to see her, or the reverse.
"You're awake at this hour?" he said.
Gwen closed her finger in her book, holding the page.
"I wake early every morning. I'm a farm girl at heart. Can't sleep past five, it seems."
As he shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the back of a chair, she recognized it, as the same one he'd been wearing, when she'd seen him last.
His jaw was unshaven. He was still hat-less as well.
And he looked every bit as miserable, as when he'd left her at the front gates of the foundling home, with the squalling babe in arms.
However he'd spent his night, the activity hadn't succeeded in cheering him up.
"Are you just coming in?" she asked, hoping she didn't sound too managing or...too wifely.
He nodded.
What a stark illustration of the differences between them.
This hour meant early rising for her, but late homecoming for him. The two of them were literally night and day.
But even night and day had to cross paths sometime.
"Where have you been?" she asked.
His answering sigh was a slow, weary rasp.
"Miss Campbell, I honestly don't even know."
"Oh." She swallowed. "Well, I'm glad you're here now."
Wordlessly, he crossed to his desk and rolled up his un-cuffed shirtsleeves.
He lit two candles, sat down and regarded the broken clockwork, he'd left waiting the other night.
"I hope your evening was more exciting than mine," she said lightly. "After dinner, your mother set me reading aloud from Scripture, to improve my diction. I was told to read only the 'H' words. Hath, holy, heresy. Rather a bore."
She lifted the book in her hand and reopened to her current page.
"Now that I've found the naughty books, the exercise seems much more interesting. Hard as hornbeam. Heaving hillocks of bounteous flesh."
When that failed to coax a smile from him, she set the book aside and curled up in the chair.
Propping her chin on her knees, she regarded him through the veil of lingering dark.
Something was very, very wrong.
In a word...in an 'H' word, no less...which seemed to be the only words she could think of now, he looked horrible...haunted, too...even more so, than he had the first night.
And part of her suspected he needed to be held.
She wasn't sure how to initiate anything of that sort. To make the attempt seemed unwise, for many reasons.
But there was one thing she could do for him...a skill learned through years of practice.
She rose from her chair, crossed to the bar in the corner and poured him a drink.
"When I started working at the tavern years ago, Mr. Halford told me, I prattled on too much."
She watched the amber liquid swirl into a glass and as she recapped the decanter, she made her voice gruff in imitation.
"Gwen, he said to me, you have to learn to tell the difference between men who come in wanting a chat, and men who just want to be let alone."
After crossing the carpet in slow, careful steps, she set the drink on the desktop, just inches from his elbow.
Arthur didn't look at it, nor at her.
He rubbed the fatigue from his face and peered at the broken clock, as if he could stare at the thing hard enough, and the gears would leap into motion of their own accord, and perhaps, begin churning time in reverse.
"I took his advice," she went on, "Learned to mind my conversations. But I also learned Mr. Halford had something wrong. Yes, there were men who wanted a chat and those who didn't..."
Gathering her courage, she laid a hand to his shoulder.
"...but none of them wanted to be alone."
Arthur drew a deep breath. His strong, linen-clad shoulder rose and fell beneath her palm.
Gwen silently counted to five, as slowly as her skittering nerves would allow.
Nothing.
Well, then, she'd given him a chance. Nodding to herself, she lifted her hand and turned away.
"I'll leave you to it, then."
"Don't."
The hoarse command froze her in place.
He swiveled his chair, so that they faced one another.
With long hands, he reached out, took her by the waist, and drew her close, between his sprawled legs.
Then, he leaned forward, slowly, until his forehead met her belly.
"Don't," he told her navel. "Don't leave."
Overwhelmed with some unnamed emotion, Gwen stroked her fingers through his thick, blonde hair.
"I won't."
"I'm sorry."
"I...I know."
They remained that way for several moments. Touching. Breathing. Warming each other in the dark.
Gratitude swelled in Gwen's heart. She hadn't let herself realize, how worried she'd been for him. Not until this moment, when he was home safe. With her.
"How is she?" he murmured.
Something told her, he didn't mean the duchess.
"The babe?"
She felt his nod of confirmation chafe against her belly.
"The baby was a he, actually. And he's fine. I took him in to the matrons. They dressed him in clean swaddling, filled his belly with milk. He'll have been named and christened by now, I expect."
"I hope he fared better than Hubert with the naming part."
She smiled and stroked his hair again.
"I shouldn't have left you. I just..." He huffed out a breath.
"Don't be too hard on yourself. It was obvious the whole place set you on edge. Many a big, strong man has been sent into a panic, by a wailing infant."
He lifted his head and gave her a searching look.
And her silly, girlish brain picked that moment, to decide he was the handsomest man she'd ever seen.
Probably because, he was the only man to ever look at her this way. Holding her together with his strong, sculpted arms, while his heated gaze turned her to mush.
"Can we return to the conversation we were having, just before all that?" she whispered. "We were standing at the gate. You were saying how much you liked me, asking for a truce. And I..."
She grazed a light touch over the slight bruise on his cheek.
"...I was about to apologize for this."
"Don't. I deserved the punches and then some. For most of my life, I've been a first-rate jackass. For the past year, I've been trying to be less of one. But I don't think I'm succeeding. I've merely graduated from first-rate jackass to flagship bastard."
"I don't know about that." She tamed a lock of his hair. "You've had your moments this week. Saved me from falling not once, but twice. You were perfect with my sister. And I suspect, that when you offered me this post, you thought you were doing it to rescue me."
Now, she wasn't sure.
Now, she wondered, if she was here to rescue him.
"At any rate, I owe you an apology for everything today. Including the water goblets," he said.
Gwen giggled.
"It truly was nothing. Just a silly tavern trick."
"I have embarrassing party tricks, too," he said.
"Do you?"
"Oh, yes." He released her, reclining in his chair. "I can pleasure two women, with both hands tied behind my back. Blindfolded."
"How boastful you are."
"Boasting would imply I'm proud of it. I'm not boasting."
'Oh God!' The look on his face told her he wasn't. The images now filling her mind, made her a little bit queasy.
And very, very curious.
"I found the naughty books," she said. "I have questions."
"Oh, Lord." He rubbed both hands over his face. "No, Miss Campbell. No."
"But you're the only person I can ask. And you owe me for the water goblets."
Arthur dropped his hands.
"Very well. You have questions? Here are some answers. 'Yes,' 'No,' and 'Only with ample lubrication.' Apply them to your questions as you like."
Gwen reached out and gave him a playful smack on the shoulder.
"It's just...the books make it sound so ridiculous. All this pulsing and divine throbbing and unparalleled ecstasy and cataclysmic smelting of two souls into one."
"Cataclysmic smelting? What book said that?" he asked, an incredulous look on his face.
"Never mind the smelting," she said. "But the rest of it. The unparalleled ecstasy part. Is it...is it really supposed to be that way?"
He sighed.
"That particular question is best answered by experience."
"But that's just it, you see. I've had experience." She cringed. "A little bit of it. And it was nothing like that. No ecstasy whatsoever. Nor even any flutterings. That's why I was wondering if the books tell lies, or...or if it was just me."
"Miss Campbell." He rose from his chair and looked her in the eye.
It was killing her not to look away, but his expression made it clear, he wouldn't answer otherwise.
So, she slid from the edge of the desk, met him toe-to-toe, and held his gaze directly.
Then waited, miserable.
"It wasn't you," he said.
In Arthur's head, alarm bells were sounding by the hundreds. He shouldn't have this conversation. Hell, he shouldn't even be here with her alone.
But he needed to be with someone right now. And by God, she needed to hear this.
"It wasn't you," he said again.
"So the books do exaggerate," she said.
"I'm not saying that, either."
Her nose crinkled.
"I'm so confused."
"That's because, there are no simple answers. Can it be divine bliss? Yes. Can it be a dismal trial? Yes. It's like conversation. With the wrong person, it can feel forced, and perfunctory. Boring as hell. But sometimes, you find someone with whom the discussion just flows. You never run out of ideas. There's no awkwardness in honesty. You surprise each other and yourselves."
"But how do you find that person without...conversing all over town?"
Arthur gave a dry laugh.
"What a question. Find the answer and bottle it, and you'll have the most successful shop in England. I might even queue up myself."
He had 'conversed' with many women in his life, and he wasn't proud of it.
He had been proud of it once, and the women themselves had few complaints.
But he'd come to realize, it was a cold thing, when the best you could say of a bed partner, wasn't "I love you" or even "I'm fond of you," but merely "I despise you a bit less than I despise myself."
But he meant what he'd said at the foundling home gates. He liked this woman. He could talk with her, as he hadn't talked with anyone in ages.
And any man who'd let her go, was a goddamned fool.
He reached for her, framing her sweet face and traced her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb.
"I don't have many answers, but I can tell you this much. It wasn't you," he said, feeling the darkness compress and heat up between them.
"Arthur..." Her hand went to his wrist. "I wasn't asking for this."
"I know." He leaned in, tilting his head for the kiss. The anticipation of her taste set his pulse racing.
"But..."
"Miss Campbell. You asked the question. Don't interrupt when I'm making a point."
He hovered an inch above her lips...then reconsidered.
A kiss wasn't what she needed. A kiss gave her too much room to hide. She needed to see him, see herself and how beautiful, how sensual, she was.
He ran his hands over the curves of her body, tracing them through her dressing gown and her little gasp of pleasure thrilled him.
"I think I had a dream that went like this," she whispered. "Just last night."
"Don't tell me that." The vision of her dreaming fitfully beneath white sheets, was a bit too much right now.
"What should I tell you, then? That you're the most attractive man I've ever known, and the mere scent of your cologne sets fire to my petticoats?"
"You should tell me to go to the devil." His hands went to the ties of her dressing gown.
He paused, one finger looped in the corded sash.
"But would you tell me so, if that's what you felt?"
She gave him a smile.
"Don't you know me at all?"
He yanked on the knotted sash, drawing her to him.
"I just know, I'm desperate to touch you, everywhere."
Just this, he told himself. Just touching.
He would allow himself this much, and no more.
Arthur worked the knot of the sash free and divided the edges of her robe, exposing the crisp white shift beneath it.
This one was new...not nearly so frail and translucent, as the one she'd worn the first night. But he found it arousing as hell, anyway.
He slid his hands up and down her body, cupping her breasts through the chemise, then stroking downward to her hips and thighs.
The linen softened and heated under the friction, molding to her form.
He found her nipples and claimed them with his thumbs, teasing and rolling them to tight peaks.
He slipped a button free, then another. Just enough, so he could push the fabric aside, bend his knees, and finally...finally suckle her the way he'd yearned to, in that darkened garden.
As he kissed his way back up her neck, he sent one hand downward, arrowing straight for her sex.
He worked his fingers between her thighs, massaging the linen until he could cradle her sex in his palm.
Even through the fabric, she was warm for him. Wet for him.
'Dear God!' He could have her so easily. Undo a few trouser buttons, push up her shift, and glide straight home. He could be in her in seconds.
"Nothing but your pleasure," he vowed to them both, stroking her with the heel of his hand and pressing his fingertips through the linen, dampening the fabric with her body's moisture.
"You have my word. I don't mean to take from you. Only give," he ended.
He supposed he should have carried her to the divan, or laid her down on the carpet, but he was selfish. He wanted all of her, all for himself.
All of her weight in his arms, all of her heat against his body. He did not want to share her with a sofa or a carpet, or even something so slight as a chair.
Wrapping his arm tight about her middle, he bound her to him.
With his other hand, he coaxed and explored her sex...desperate for her secrets.
There were few things that gave him more satisfaction in life, than bringing a woman pleasure. In so many ways, it was like solving a puzzle.
Each woman had the same anatomy.
But the crucial bits came in all shapes and sizes, fit together in different ways, and each responded to a unique set of strokes and caresses.
The same techniques might not work from one woman to the next. The process of discovery was humbling and intoxicating.
But when he triumphed...when he found just the right touch to apply, in just the right place, for just as long as she needed it...ah, the sweet thrill of success.
Victory was a heady drug.
He loved feeling a woman come undone in his arms. Loved feeling the taut ring of her sex soften and melt for him, then grasp him tighter than a fist.
He loved learning each little expression and sound, that heralded her orgasm.
Some women sighed, some wept, some laughed, some whimpered, some begged, some screamed.
Some were wickedly grateful in the aftermath, and others grew endearingly bashful.
He didn't know what Gwen would be like, when she reached her peak. But he knew he must find out.
Deep inside, he expected transcendence. Something utterly different, than anything he'd experienced before.
He gathered a handful of her shift and drew the fabric upward.
"You can say no," he murmured.
"I don't want to."
'Thank heaven.' He slid his hand beneath the linen, skimming a slow, patient touch up her thigh.
When he reached her cleft, his patience left him. He had to be inside her, somehow.
He parted her folds and plunged a single finger into her tight, wet heat.
Gwen gasped. Her hands clutched at him and the delicious bite of her fingernails made him wild.
"Are you frightened?" he asked, holding still. "Do you want me to stop?"
"Yes, I'm a bit frightened." She looked up at him and swallowed hard. "And no, I don't want you to stop."
Arthur kissed her again, thrusting his tongue in rhythm with his touch. Slowly in, then out.
When he felt she was ready, he added a second finger.
Her intimate muscles stretched and contracted around the combined girth, gripping him tight.
His manhood throbbed vainly in his trousers, trapped in a painful state of arousal.
She nestled close to him, her belly pressed against the aching ridge of his erection.
It wasn't nearly all that he desired, but the friction provided some relief.
She broke the kiss and rested her head on his shoulder, slack-jawed and breathing hard.
Her hips writhed, as she worked herself against his hand, grinding against him in, the way that pleased her most.
He began to whisper against her ear.
He knew she'd passed the point of coherence, so he said any foolish thing that came to mind.
How lovely she was in the moonlight, and how proud he was of her courage.
How she'd enchanted him that very first night, and he still hadn't found his way back, through the magic cabinet. How he adored her neck and her sharp brown eyes.
How sweetness clung to her, and how he fantasized spending blissful hours, slowly lapping it up with his tongue.
"Here," he whispered, skimming his thumb up and down her crease. "I'd taste you here. You'd be so sweet. And then..."
He pushed his fingers deep, driving them to the hilt. With his thumb, he worried the swollen nub at the crest of her sex.
"Arthur," she pleaded.
"Yes," he said. "That's right."
She gave a few charming little hitches of breath. Like an ascending scale on the pianoforte. And then, she came with one perfect sighing, shuddering moan.
Her intimate muscles contracted deliciously around his fingers. But all in all, her orgasm was not quite the epic, transcendent experience he'd expected.
What stunned him breathless was his own reaction.
That was entirely new.
The surge of emotion he felt...it wasn't just the usual triumph of bringing a woman pleasure.
An unbearable font of tenderness welled in his chest. Mingled with protectiveness, and fondness. The impulse to not just pleasure her, but cherish her, and guard her.
He pressed kiss after kiss to the crown of her head, as if he could expel this painful excess of emotion.
"It wasn't you," he whispered, nuzzling the delicious lobe of her ear. "Whoever he was, he was a fool. Or a boor. Or just too damned young to know what the hell he was doing. But it wasn't you. Understand?"
Gwen clung to his shirtfront for long moments, breathing hard. Finally, she looked up at him.
"Will you take me upstairs?"
He'd never wanted anything so much. To simply take her upstairs, let his world explode, and then contend with the rubble later.
"I wouldn't expect anything," she rushed on. "I'm not asking for promises. I just want to know what it's like, when it's good. And I might go my whole life without another chance. I'm not a lady with a reputation to guard. There's no one to care."
Damn it, he cared.
He cared, and he could no longer deny it.
He'd brought her into his house, taken her under his protection. Lady or not, he wanted to treat her well.
Her hands slid up his chest, then trailed down his arms. She pressed a light kiss to his neck.
"Arthur, please."
His length throbbed in eager agreement.
'Her,' his stupid heart whispered. 'I'll take her.'
But beneath all this, his veins ran cold with a deep, dark current of fear.
It was too great a risk for them both.
He couldn't take her like this, when she'd never be his for the keeping. This way lay danger and months of despair.
"I can't." He stroked her hair. "It isn't you. I want you more than you could possibly know, in ways you couldn't even fathom. But I just can't."
He released her with abruptness...because, that was the only way he could do it at all.
Stay safe.