Lynne Connolly - Counterfeit Countess

They would not. She knew it was true, but it astonished her that he felt the same way. “You never showed any sign of noticing me.”

“I worked hard not to. I took less notice of you than the other women, because I wanted you. When Stephen told me I had a wife, I first thought I’d to condemn you out of hand. Then he gave me your name. Faith.” He whispered the word like a benediction, his heated breath sweeping her cheek. “I didn’t dare believe it was you, but I met you and it was.”

“How do you know we didn’t marry as you said?” If he didn’t remember, how could he be sure? His story of her first husband dying before the battle sounded real, believable enough to have actually happened.

He lost any hint of a smile and gazed at her, his dark eyes grave.

His arm tightened around her, pressing her breasts hard against his chest, as if he knew she’d try to break away at his next words. “My memory loss is not as extensive as I’ve led people to suppose. I considered it best to conceal that fact for the time being.”

She swallowed. “So you recall everything?”

“Not quite. I still have a blank part in my mind. I remember taking orders before the battle, putting them into action, and then—nothing until I woke up in the medical tent. Almost everything returned except for that lost hour or so, the action that resulted in my injury. More like half an hour, I believe. As much as I can piece it together from the time that I remember to the times quoted in the press as to when certain actions occurred.”

“You were at the farmhouse.” She remembered. Her husband had died there.

“Hougoumont.”

Faith closed her eyes and let her breath out in a rush. Many of the worst casualties in the whole of the battle came from that place.

“You could have died.” The action had drawn troops that Napoleon could have dispersed elsewhere. So much that the farmhouse had become a magnet for them. Some of the most desperate hand-to-hand fighting had occurred there.

“I nearly did.” He lifted her hand, placed it on his head. She felt the dent there, deep, one side straight, sharp-edged. He sighed and rubbed his scalp, now softened by thick, dark hair against her hand, like a cat demanding attention. “Afterwards, when I felt well enough to travel, I couldn’t wait to knock the dust of Europe off my boots. That’s why I never owned up to the initial mistake, that my name wasn’t John Dalkington-Smythe. I let them think I was John Smith. Any John Smith.” He paused. “How did you get involved in the mess? How did you come to take my name? To pose as my widow?”

She hesitated, still unwilling to reveal everything. Remembering what he’d said earlier, she decided to keep to the truth. She doubted she could lie to him and keep up the story for long. “They came to tell me that my husband had perished. They said you were dead, too. I don’t know how they arrived at that conclusion but I can guess.” She paused, pictures vivid in her mind. “You’ve seen what the thieves do to the bodies after battle. They strip them completely. They’d be more likely to desecrate an officer because of the gold on his uniform.” Any body with the remnants of a uniform lying next to it might have been identified as John. “There were a lot of dead bodies. A lot of wounded, too. I—I suppose I thought it better to be a Dalkington-Smythe than a Smith. I was confused, upset. I wanted to get away.”

She didn’t appreciate his perceptive gaze. Her hand was still buried in his hair. Caught there, her palm against the scar that was all that remained of the wound that nearly took his life. She leaned up, pulled him closer, and kissed him. At least he couldn’t ask any more questions.

His groan told her he enjoyed what she was doing. Forgetting about the rest she was supposed to take, she rolled on top of him, emboldened by the warmth she brought to him. She sat up, then paused, straddling his thighs. “I don’t know—“

“Oh, don’t stop now.” He placed his big hands on her hips, stroked down the crease at her groin, touched the knot of flesh, so sensitive. She cried out and moved against him without realising she would. “Do you know what this is, oh woman of crude words?”

She gave a laugh of pure joy. “I know what it does.”

“Good enough. It’s the clitoris. I believe the Greeks named it, although I don’t know for sure. They never taught me that word at school. Have you ever toyed with it?”

With heat rising to her cheeks, she opened her eyes wide and stared at him. “S-sometimes, but I thought it was wrong.”

“Not if you need it. I have a theory that if we don’t relieve our needs in that area, then we suffer in other ways. We might lose our tempers more, or the aches and pains of frustration may attack another part of our bodies.”

That made her laugh. “What an odd theory.” She sucked in a breath when he continued to play.

“We need never put it to the test. Women may come as strongly from that as from the act itself.” He urged her up on her knees, so she moved closer to him, her sex hovering above his chest. “Come down on me, Faith. Fuck me.”

Oh, the words. Now he knew the words excited her, he’d be relentless. Her lips suddenly dry, she licked them, and he followed the motion with his avid gaze. “Do it, Faith.”

Her name coupled with the command that was no command.

John decided not to help her, but let her do it. She took hold of his member and held it steady so she could push it inside her when she came back down on him. The heat in her eyes told him everything he needed to know. She loved it; she hadn’t said it to please him. He’d found someone who enjoyed slightly rougher play and his darker vocabulary, and that delighted him. To know he didn’t have to guard his tongue around her meant he didn’t have to guard his opinions, either. Someone to share, to talk to—

Coherent thoughts fled John’s head when she wrapped him in her hot sheath. Then she began to move and his sanity threatened to follow coherence. She rose and fell as if she’d done this with him many times before, and yet the freshness of the occasion seeped through his every nerve. He watched her, enjoyed the way she opened to him, and savoured the first few strokes before he did as he promised.

He brought his hand down to where they joined and touched the place. She stopped but when he shook his head, she continued to move. He wanted to experience everything he could of their joining. Already the scent of them wreathed around his senses with intoxicating power. She reduced him to quivering heap. A delighted one, he had to admit, but he needed to do something in return.

Sliding his hand out a little, he positioned his thumb where it would hit her clitoris every time she plunged down on him. The first time she gasped, and jerked her body off his.

“No, keep going.” His voice sounded hoarse, but he managed the instruction and then he watched her pleasuring him and herself.

Keeping his body rigid, he thrust up in tempo with her actions, saw her arousal rise to unmanageable proportions. They moved together in a dance neither could break. The best dance he’d ever performed with the best partner he’d ever had.

Fire gathered in his loins, liquid heat that didn’t douse the flames but roused them. If the house had fallen around his ears he couldn’t have stopped. Here he didn’t have to worry about making a noise or anyone knowing. In fact, it would help him if people did know.

Although he tried to hold back, gritted his teeth and willed himself not to come, it was no good. He stiffened as his peak tensed his balls, gathered at the base of his cock and then he exploded.

His last thought before his world dissolved was, “Thank God,”

when her channel twitched and then clenched him hard. “Ah, Christ in heaven, darling!”