Lady Rogue (26 page)

“Alex,” she whispered again.

In response he moved over her, pushing her legs farther apart and settling his hips over hers, his hard shaft pressing against her, hot and throbbing. And he hesitated. “Are you certain?” he asked, his voice strained and his expression telling her that it would kill him if she said no.

But he had asked her, anyway. “Yes,” she returned breathlessly, loving the feel of his hard weight on top of her. She raised her head to kiss him.

He kissed her back, his mouth teasing relentlessly at hers, while his hand stroked at the hot, secret, sensitive part of her so that she gasped again. She wanted more of him, she wanted everything, and when slowly, so slowly, he eased inside her, she gave a mingled cry of pain and wonder and desire.

Alex stopped. “I’m sorry, sweet one,” he murmured tightly, holding very still. Gently he kissed her closed eyelids. “I know it hurts. But it means you’re mine now. Mine only. It will stop hurting. I promise, waif.” He began to move, slowly and carefully, and she gasped again, her eyes shooting open to look into his, but the pain had already begun to recede, as he had promised. “Better?” he whispered, shifting a little and brushing hair from her eyes.

She groaned, half shutting her eyes again as sensation flooded through her. “Yes.” He raised up on his hands again, and kissed her once more. The movement of his hard staff inside her increased, his rhythm strong and steady and deep, and she began instinctively lifting her hips to meet him.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, almost wonderingly, and lowered his dark head to lick her breast.

Her back arched, a deep, growing tension building through her, and she reached down to clasp his buttocks, pulling him deeper inside her, trying to make the two of them one with a compelling urgency that she understood without knowing. He felt it as well, for she could see it in the azure eyes that watched her every expression, could feel it in the rhythm of his body moving inside hers. Finally she shuddered as the tension exploded, in a pulsing pleasure unlike anything she had ever experienced in her life.

Feeling the change in her, Alex smiled. He slowed the rhythm of his hips and deepened his thrusts, and she groaned and gasped his name. With a quickening motion he shuddered, much as she had, then lowered his head to bury his face in her shoulder. Slowly and carefully he settled his weight back down on top of her.

Breathing hard, Kit ran her fingers over his sweat-
slicked back, wishing they could stay this way forever. He slowly lifted his head, then raised himself up on one elbow to look down at her. He stayed that way for a long time, searching her face, while she dared not look away. This man, this Englishman, this rakehell and interfering peer, couldn’t be an enemy, because she loved him. Only one question remained, the one that could determine her path: she still had no idea what, other than simple lust and desire, he felt for her.

With his free hand he gently curled a damp lock of her hair behind her ear. “I believe I have failed your father,” he said dryly, slowly caressing her bare skin with the palm of his hand.

“It’s about time,” she replied with more courage than she felt. He left her feeling so…vulnerable, and yet so strong, at the same time.

He gave a slow, lazy smile. “All that talk about a dress that was too big, and shoes that were too small, and then there you were at the Thornhills’, Diana in all her glory. Good God.”

“That was a different dress,” she reminded him with a pleased grin, and kissed his chin.

That caused him to kiss her thoroughly for several moments. “I know that,” he finally returned, running his finger along her lower lip, “but it does conjure a certain image, you know.”

Slowly he shifted off of her. She frowned as he removed himself, and he grinned at her. “Wanton,” he murmured, sitting to pull up the blankets, for the room was still chilled even with the fire going. He tugged the smooth sheets up around her shoulders and then settled himself back down beside her.

“You need another pillow,” she commented, turning her head to face him. “Whatever do you and Barbara Sinclair do with only one pillow?”

“This is not where Barbara and I spent our evenings,” he said.

Her deduction had been correct, after all. “Why not?”

“Why do you insist on discussing my former mistress
when I only wish to lie here and look at you?” he queried instead of answering.

He liked looking at her. “Your
former
mistress?” she repeated. “Does that make me your current mistress?”

Alex frowned, his expression telling her he did not wish to contemplate that at the moment. And neither did she. Not when tonight was all they had. “I don’t know what it makes you, Christine Kit Riley Brantley. Other than a great deal of trouble, of course.”

The string of names served to remind her of the one thing that had troubled her about the evening. “You are acquainted with the Duke of Furth,” she stated, daring him to deny it.

“I am,” he answered, only a slight shift in his body alerting her that he was less easy with his answer than he wanted her to think. “I never said I wasn’t.”

“No,” she agreed reluctantly, “but you implied—”

He stopped her argument with a kiss. “Not tonight, chit,” he said softly. “Nothing to lie about later.”

She looked at him closely, could read nothing in his eyes but a reflection of the curiosity and desire in her own. “Not tonight,” she agreed.

He leaned over her and kissed her again, then slid his hand around her waist to tug her against him. “Good.”

Christine chuckled, delighted that he desired her again already. “Now who is the wanton?” she asked slyly.

“We shall see. After I learn every inch of you, chit.”

“Every inch?” she repeated, shivering in anticipation.

“Every inch? Inside and out.”

“Oh, lud.” She chuckled, then groaned as his mouth closed again over hers.

Alex awoke before Christine. Her face was only a few inches from his, as they had ended up sharing the single pillow, after all. One of his arms was draped across her shoulder, the other half-asleep under her side. Their legs were such a tangle that without moving, he couldn’t tell where his ended and hers began.

For a long time he lay there watching her soft, slow breathing. Rakehell though many called him, she was
only the second virgin he had ever taken. The first had been on his wedding night, and Mary’s response had been as different from Kit’s as ice was from fire. As for Christine Brantley, his hunch that first morning, when he had watched her devouring his breakfast, had been correct. As a female, she was dangerous.

Kit stirred in her sleep and tucked herself closer against him, trusting him in her dreams, at least. He shifted his arm so he could curl his fingers into the blond halo framing her face. Before her arrival, he had rarely spent a night alone, and had hated the mornings that followed—the expected coquettish banter and the rehearsed, unfelt excuses over how sorry he was to have to quit the bed, but he really did have things to do.

After Kit Brantley had exploded into his life, he’d spent every night alone, with his impractical single pillow, and the mornings had been the least lonely ones he had ever known. The extraordinary chit bursting into his bedchamber and wanting to learn how to shave, or insulting him in French, or devouring everything in sight, left him happier than he had been since before his parents had died and left him alone.

But she was still a traitor. He should never have let her get this close, even if he had never wanted something, someone, so badly in his life. His only excuse had been that she would be gone after today, but last night had tangled even that one definite into a mishmash he didn’t care to delve into too deeply. He raised up onto his elbow and brushed his lips across her forehead. If he told nothing of what he knew, British soldiers could pay the price of his selfishness with their lives. If he did his duty, as the daughter of Stewart Brantley, she could face hanging, imprisonment, or at best, exile to Australia. Alex drew a quick breath. Unless she wasn’t considered to be Stewart Brantley’s daughter any longer. He closed his eyes, nervous tension running through him as he contemplated doing what he’d sworn never to do again.

“If you’re pretending to be asleep, you shouldn’t have your head propped up like that,” Christine murmured, and he opened his eyes again.

“Thank you,” he said. “Obviously I lack your skills at prevarication.”

The easy amusement in her eyes changed to suspicion in an instant. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked with her typical bold attack in the face of accusation.

He wasn’t ready to confront her. “Only that you’ve been fooling the world about your gender for nearly fourteen years.” He lifted an eyebrow. “What did you think I meant?”

She hesitated for a moment. “I didn’t know. That’s why I was angry.”

Alex frowned, uncertain of exactly how he wished to proceed, especially in the face of her mercurial temperament. “I won’t be able to ride to Canterbury until this afternoon,” he said to himself, sitting up and running a hand through his hair.

Kit sat up beside him and kissed his shoulder. “Whatever are you going to Canterbury for?”

“For a special license, of course. Unraveling your tale will take some doing, but I think we can manage it.”

She had become very still, but he kept his gaze locked on the bedpost. “What are you talking about?” she finally whispered.

“Our marriage, of course, goose,” he returned brusquely. It was easier to say than he’d expected, especially as he had meant never to utter the word in connection with himself again.

He could feel her emerald stare burning into him. “We are not getting married,” she stated.

“Of course we are.” He took a breath. Soon, probably within the next day or so, he was going to have to confront her about her loyalties, but first he wanted her under the protection of his name. “You may be pregnant.”

She swallowed, her eyes narrowing. “I am not.”

“I didn’t take any precautions, and I doubt you are skilled in methods of preventing conception.” He forced himself to look straight at her. “Are you?”

Slowly she shook her head, her expression fleetingly uncertain.

“Well, it’s settled, then. It’ll take a few donations to the church, but we can be married by tomorrow evening.”

“No.”

He had expected her to balk, but had no intention of letting it stop him. “You have no choice, Kit. There’s no—”

“I said no, Alex.”

“Christine—”

“I did not do this to trap you into marriage, Everton. In a few days I’ll be back in Paris, and you won’t—”

“I will not have my by-blow wandering about Paris,” he growled with what he hoped was the correct degree of anger, “and I would not leave you unmarried with a child.”

She glared at him, as stubborn as he. “And I won’t have you loathing me the way you did Mary because I can’t be what you want in a w—”

That shook him. “You are not like Mary. And I—”

“I don’t want to talk about it any longer.” She shoved the sheets aside and rose, naked, to stalk over to the window. “You’re already engaged, anyway.”

“I am no such thing, damn it.” Good Lord, she was lovely. And too blasted distracting. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. “At least tell me when you last bled.” Any other woman, he could browbeat into a marriage—wouldn’t have to do more than suggest it, in fact. If that. But not this one. And stupid and absurd as it seemed, especially given his reason for proposing it, he wanted her to want to be wed to him.

She turned to look at him, splendid in the filtered sunlight. “A few days ago,” she replied, clearly embarrassed.

“How many days ago?” he insisted, finding that her answer somewhat disappointed him. It might have been an excuse, but any reason to keep her there with him would do.

“Three or four.”

“Not more than that?”

“No!
Bâtard
,” she grumbled.

“All right,” he acquiesced reluctantly, damning his sense of fair play. Truth where she was involved, though, seemed of the utmost importance now. “You are probably not pregnant.”

“Why didn’t you ask me that in the first place, then?” she demanded. “We could have avoided this entire stupid conversation.”

Alex looked at her. She truly didn’t wish to marry him. “Damned stubborn Irish chit,” he muttered.

“And don’t speak of it again,” she ordered, jabbing a finger in his direction.

“I bloody well will speak—” The clock on the landing began chiming, and didn’t stop until it reached ten. “Damnation!” He flung the remainder of the bedsheets aside and stormed to his feet, striding over to the dressing table.

“What now?” she demanded, her expression sliding from furious to concerned.

“I am late.”

She put her hands on her hips, obviously still displeased with him. “Do you wish me to hide under the bed while Antoine assists you?”

He gave a reluctant chuckle. “If you can dress on your own, so can I.” Alex burrowed into his wardrobe and pulled out a shirt, which he tossed back to her. “And put some clothes on before we end up back in bed.”

“That’s a splendid idea,” she replied, catching the shirt. When he determinedly ignored her, she sighed and pulled the soft lawn over her disheveled head. “I’ll shave you, then,” she offered in what was obviously her version of an apology for their argument.

Alex remembered all too well what had nearly happened the last time she had interrupted him. “Absolutely not,” he countered. “The gentleman I’m to meet would not be pleased if I kept him waiting.” Neither would the other three gentlemen accompanying him, to whom he would have to lie one last time.

She scowled, then perched in the windowsill to watch him dress and shave. “You look quite…conservative
this morning,” she noted as he tied his cravat in a simple, rather severe knot. “Who are you meeting with?”

There was really no reason not to tell her. “Prince George.”

She sat up straight. “Prinny? Really? If I hurry and dress, may I go?”

“No!” he returned sharply. For both the Regent’s sake and her own, he wanted her nowhere near Buckingham Palace.