Lady Rosabella's Ruse (15 page)

Did he approve of what he saw? Or would he see the low-class foreignness in her blood as something to scorn or mock as her grandfather had avowed when offering her the horridest of old men as a husband?

There was an expression on his face, something in his eyes, but she couldn’t read it.

She dropped her gaze, fearing what she might see. What he would say.

‘Gorgeous,’ he whispered. ‘Truly lovely. I never thought the beauty of your body would outmatch a most delicious pair of feet.’

She looked up quickly and saw nothing mocking in his face. Indeed, there was a kind of wondering awe. The amazement in his eyes was unquestionably sincere.

She managed a tremulous smile, even as the heat of embarrassment at his outrageous praise flooded her body.

‘Ah, the Madonna-face again,’ he said. ‘It drives me mad for you and you know it, don’t you?’

She shook her head, not at all sure what he meant. ‘It is the only face I have,’ she whispered.

‘Then I must kiss it.’ He cupped her jaw in both palms and kissed her lips. She opened her mouth to welcome him in, parted her thighs to the pressure of his. Felt him groan. It seemed he was not the only one with power.

Then thoughts refused to form as pleasure at her core roused her to new heights of longing.

Slowly he lowered her to the cushions in front of the hearth; the velvet felt soft against her naked skin, a contrast to the brush of rough hair against her inner thigh, the hardness of his member at her hip and the firm squeeze of his hand at her breast.

Her skin became one vast plain of sensation, tingles and searing heat, heartbeats thundering in her ears and throughout her body. The kiss stole her vision of everything but the feel of his lips, his tongue, his strong male body and the need they inspired deep within.

Slowly, lingeringly, he ended the magical wooing of his mouth on hers with butterfly kisses on the tip of her nose, each eyelid, the point of her chin, while her hands explored the expanse of his shoulders, the narrow span of his waist, the rise of his buttocks. A lean body, steel covered by hot silk, so different from hers.

He slid downwards, his weight on one hand, while the other played with her breast. Delicious little arrows of pleasure speared downwards. She raised her head to see what he did. Together they watched as he rolled her dark brown nipple between thumb and finger, tugging lightly.

‘Ah,’ she cried at the lancing ache. A darting glance, gleaming with wickedness, met her gaze and then he bent his head, his hot wet tongue and teeth replacing his fingers. The sensation brought her hips up off the cushions.

‘Oh,’ she cried, stunned at the force of the pleasure, the sweet aching pain of it, and the shocking desire for more.

She didn’t have to ask, he seemed to know, and the pleasure grew each time his mouth found some new way to drive her to utter distraction.

Yet no matter how high she soared, how tight her insides clenched, what she wanted seemed just beyond her reach and centred deep inside. She raised her hips, pressing against his thigh, and while the increased pressure offered a measure of satisfaction, it only added to the torture of what was happening inside her body.

When he started to go lower with his kisses, she moaned a protest.

He chuckled softly and she struck his shoulder with her fist, a demand, but for what she didn’t quite know, even as the words came into her mind.
Le petit mort.
The little death. That was it. She wanted to die. To end the torture.

He half rolled on his side and cupped between her legs, pressing and moving his hand in a small circle. The tension only got worse. A thrill screamed through her blood, even as his fingers parted the folds of her most intimate place.

A breath hissed between his teeth. ‘So small and so hot,’ he muttered. He pulled away.

‘What—’

‘Hush. This will take but a moment.’

Even as the words were leaving his mouth he was lifting her hips with one hand cupped beneath her bottom and pushing another cushion beneath her.

She frowned at him, and he smiled. ‘Never tried it? You’ll like it, believe me.’

She gazed up at him and nodded. She had to trust him, for she had no practical knowledge. Would he be able to tell?

Would there be blood and pain as some said, or only a moment of discomfort? Since this was the most natural, if wicked, act between a man and a woman, she had to believe the latter.

She widened her legs at the push of his knee as he hung above her, her hips tilted high, like an offering. He glanced down, his eyes heavy and his expression darker and wilder than she had ever seen him as he focused on the wickedly delicious sensations caused by his hand between her thighs. Once more she felt him open her to him, and when she glanced down, she saw it was not his hand this time, but his shaft, his rod, as the other woman had laughingly called it, pressed against her opening.

She tensed, glancing up at his face. His eyes were closed, pleasure already softening the stern line of his jaw.

He thrust forwards.

Chapter Nine

P
ain seared through her. She cried out. Closed her eyes against the agony gripping her flesh.

He stilled. ‘Bloody hell.’

Panting, she lifted her lids to meet a face filled with regret and a sort of strained agony. ‘Oh, Rose, love, what have you done?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

‘Are you hurt? Shall I stop?’

The pain was receding. While the feel of him inside her felt foreign, it also felt good. She moved her hips and felt the sting, but also a return of thrilling sensations. An echo of the pleasure that had held her in its thrall only a moment ago.

‘No. Please. I am fine. Don’t stop now.’ She brought her hands up to his face. For a moment she thought he would jerk away, refuse to let her touch him, but then he groaned and let her palm his jaw. ‘Please. Don’t stop.’

A savage expression set his face in harsh lines and his lips twisted in a mocking smile. ‘Well played, my dear.’

She stared at him blankly, not understanding this sudden change.

With infinite care he moved within her, first slowly withdrawing, until she thought he would leave her. She gripped his waist with her calves. His jaw hardened. He refused to be restrained. Before she could cry out a protest against his leaving, he eased forwards, the slide a gentle torture. Again and again, he stroked her from the inside, teasing the twist of tension inside her, and all the while he watched her face with his mocking smile. Yet she had the feeling he mocked himself, for he treated her with great gentleness.

Hanging above her, his weight on his hands each side of her head, he seemed so distant. So uninvolved, when his body was bringing her so much delight.

She ran her hands across his chest, felt the muscle around his flat nipples, tested the rough dark hair that trailed off towards his belly with her fingertips. He felt lovely.

But when she glanced up to his face, there was no pleasure, only a kind of pain, his lips drawn back from his teeth, while he moved his hips with gentle patience. A thrilling kind of torture that left her hanging on the verge of some great discovery, which for some reason he seemed determined to deny.

The longer it continued, the deeper the waiting abyss became. The nearer she came to flying over the edge, the more he seemed to hold her back.

Furious at his teasing, she tweaked his nipples as he had done to hers. He groaned and slammed himself into her body.

A sense of satisfaction filled the void. She grabbed his shoulders and lifted her hips, impaling herself, clenching her muscles to hold him fast; when she found his ear brushing against her mouth, she nipped at his earlobe.

A shudder ran through him. He thrust into her hard and fast. Her body drew bowstring tight as the brink fell away and she soared on a hot rush of light and shattered.

He cried out, a sound of shock as he shuddered deep within her body.

Panting, she collapsed, her hands too weak to hold him, her limbs heavy and languid, her body pulsing around him, before he pulled away.

He lowered his head to her shoulder. His heart beat a thunder against her ribs, his breathing ragged and tumultuous as her own. ‘Oh, hell,’ he whispered with what sounded like despair.

‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped, her heart thundering, her body trembling with shock after shock.

He raised his head and gazed down on her with such tenderness he looked almost a different man. ‘Not you, darling,’ he said, his breathing hard and ragged. ‘Never you.’ He stroked damp strands of her hair back from her temples with hands that shook. ‘You were wonderful. Amazing.’ He kissed the tip of her nose. ‘Are you all right?’

The gentle concern in his face unfurled something in her chest. Something warm and wonderful. She knew right at that moment she’d fallen in love. She stroked his cheek. ‘I’m fine,’ she said smiling. ‘Really.’

He smiled sweetly and drew away from her, leaving her body, immediately drawing the sheet he’d used earlier over them both and pulling her into the circle of his arms.

‘Rest, sweet, and we’ll talk later.’ He rhythmically stroked from shoulder to hip and she felt warm and protected in his embrace.

Unable to shake the lethargy stealing over her senses, she sank into darkness.

Cocooned in blissful warmth, it was some moments before Rosa made sense of the sounds of the deep breathing nearby or the cushions beneath her and the heavy weight across her stomach. The glow of the fire answered her questions.

The kitchen at Gorham Place. Garth, sprawled naked beside her, one arm across her belly, his face turned away. He’d slipped off the cushions on to the hearth rug. She extricated herself from beneath his arm, sliding off the cushions to pull on her shift. He looked lovely in the warmth of the firelight, relaxed, his face devoid of all cynicism.

It would be dawn soon. They must leave before anyone arrived. There would be no more opportunities to search the house.

The realisation struck her hard. She had searched. She’d found nothing.

It wasn’t here. There was no will. For whatever reason, Papa had not kept his promise. Something must have gone wrong. Perhaps he simply hoped Grandfather would take care of them. Or thought he would wait until he came into his inheritance, not realising that he never would. One thing she knew for certain in her heart, one truth she would not give up. He had loved his daughters. Whatever had happened, it had been a mistake.

No sense in dwelling on what might or should have been. She had carved a new path out of her difficulties. It might not be particularly honourable, but at least she wasn’t crawling back to her grandfather in defeat. At heart, Garth seemed a much kinder man than her grandfather. She liked him. She just had to hope she was right to trust him.

She glanced around. There must be no evidence left of their presence here tonight. A banked fire might cause some raised brows, but could be seen as something Inchbold would do to warm the house after it had lain empty. Cushions on the floor and makeshift clothes-horses were out of the question.

Garth stirred and sighed in his sleep. He looked so peaceful, she hated to disturb him.

She flung her cloak around her shoulders and gathered the cushions. She carried them through to the library and replaced them on the sofa. An odd sense that she’d missed something nagged at her mind. But what? Was there perhaps more than one secret door in the desk? The urge to look again drove her upstairs. She discovered nothing new, but the feeling remained with her.

When she returned to the kitchen Garth was already up and buttoning his shirt.

‘Is it dry?’ she asked.

His dark eyes met hers and she was shocked at the anger she saw in their depths. ‘Where did you go?’

Feeling very naked, she pulled her cloak around her. ‘To put the cushions back. Why?’

He sat down on the hearth stool and rubbed a hand across his jaw, shaking his head. ‘I thought you’d run off.’

She stared at him, surprised. ‘Would you care?’

‘No.’ He winced. ‘Yes.’ He sat on the settle by the hearth, forearms resting on his thighs, his gaze intent. ‘Rose, what kind of game are you playing here?’

‘Game?’ She stared at him blankly.

‘Until a couple of hours ago, you were a virgin.’

Heat enveloped her. She hung her head. ‘Oh, that.’

‘Yes, dammit, that. You couldn’t possibly think I wouldn’t know. So I ask you again, what is your game?’

A guilty wince tightened her lips. ‘No game. I didn’t think you would mind.’

‘Not mind?’ He stared at her as if she was mad. ‘Why on earth did you pretend to be a widow? How could you be so bacon-brained?’

Her hackles went up. ‘Lady Keswick stipulated she wanted a widow in her advertisement. I didn’t think it would matter.’

He shook his head wearily. ‘You should have told me. I would never have…’ He gestured at the floor, where they’d lain together.

A trembling started inside her. Fear that she’d gone from one disaster to another. ‘I thought you wanted me.’ The pleading note in her voice made her cringe inside. ‘I thought you would set me up as your mistress.’

His head came up, his mouth flat. ‘Is that what you thought? Really?’

Oh, God help her, what had she done? ‘Was I mistaken?’ Her voice shook.

‘Just what sort of man do you take me for?’

He sounded so scornful, she wanted to hit him. She curled her fingers inside her palms, forcing herself to speak with a coolness she did not feel. ‘A degenerate rake.’

Fury blazed in his eyes. ‘Damn you, Rose Travenor. I am both, but I am not a seducer of innocents.’ He let out a laugh. ‘Or was not until now.’ He raked a hand though his hair. ‘Is that even your name? Clearly there is no Mr Travenor.’ He put his hands on his hips. ‘Out with it. Who are you?’

He looked so furious, she couldn’t look him in the eye, so she gazed at the fireplace instead. ‘I don’t see why my name matters.’

He tipped his head back as if seeking divine intervention. ‘It matters on a marriage certificate.’

‘What!’ Her mouth dropped open. Her heart leapt with a kind of hot joy, more powerful than their lovemaking. Never in her wildest dreams did she imagine he would ask for her hand.

‘How proud you must be,’ he said. ‘You are the first gently bred
innocent
female who has ever tricked me into bedding her. I suppose this was all a lie, too.’ He waved an arm around. ‘The searching. The sadness when you found nothing. Your way of getting me alone.’

The joy was swept away on a blast of cold reality. Her anger rose up, clamouring in her blood and pounding in her ears, turning her vision crimson. ‘The seducer is seduced, in other words.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘I never asked you to follow me. I didn’t want you to follow me. It was all your own doing.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘And so I get to live with the consequences. Did I seduce someone in your family and this is some form of revenge? Or has Lady Keswick turned matchmaker?’

None of this was making any sense. ‘I don’t want to marry you, and I won’t marry you. Does that make you feel any better?’

He scrubbed at the back of his neck. ‘Don’t be stupid. I have to marry you. You might be carrying my child.’

The wind of anger went right out of her sails. She sank on to the wooden settle. ‘But…but some people are married for ages before a child comes along. It takes practice.’

He gave a pained laugh. ‘Believe me, I’ve had lots of practice. And it can happen the first time.’

‘Oh.’ She frowned. ‘But mistresses don’t… I mean, somehow they…’

‘They take precautions. But you didn’t, did you?’ He looked hopeful.

‘No. I wasn’t expecting…’

‘Damn.’ He sat beside her. ‘Then the piper must be paid.’

‘Do you want to be married?’

‘Not in the least.’

The finality in his voice was like a surgeon’s scalpel. It sliced a piece out of her heart and left it bleeding.

‘Then don’t. You don’t love me, do you?’ Did she have to ask him that? Did she have to give him another weapon?

His laugh was scornful. It hurt to hear it, the way a stone scratched across slate pained the ears.

‘Love is a fabrication, made up by poets to get silly females falling at their feet. I’ll marry you because I’m damned if any child of mine is born a bastard and that’s all. Don’t think you are going to change me.’ His voice was hard, his face implacable.

She wrapped her arms across her stomach. ‘But there might not be a child.’

‘I won’t take that chance. Come on, let me help you dress, we’ve a busy day ahead of us.’

‘I—’

‘I don’t want to hear any more about it, Rose. The matter is settled.’

The hands that had been so gentle and caring earlier were now brisk and firm. He barely looked at her.

Cold reality scoured her heart. He was right in a way. She should have told him she was an innocent. But how was she to know he’d take it to heart, feel his honour was impugned? She didn’t think rakes had any honour.

A good marriage might well have been the answer to all of her problems, but a bad one could only make things worse. If she couldn’t marry for love, she wasn’t going to marry at all. She had always said so.

She should never have thought she could be a mistress. Never let him change her mind. She should have stuck to her plan and opted for the opera.

The three-mile trudge along rutted lanes deep in mud in a heavy silence left Rosa exhausted. Stanford had been right, they would not have been able to accomplish the journey at night in the storm, but she wished they had tried. Life would not now be so complicated.

The river had not washed away the bridge in the village, but in the low places water lay in deep puddles across the road and the mud made walking exceedingly difficult.

They met a couple of farm labourers who were on their way to the fields. Garth tipped his hat when they stopped to stare in dull curiosity. As far as she could tell, no one else remarked their passing.

She was glad of his grim silence, because it gave her time to think and the more she thought the more she realised she would not marry a rake and a libertine who thought she’d tricked him into marriage. What kind of marriage would it be if he carried so much resentment? He was probably horrified because he knew her mother was an opera singer. She couldn’t blame him for the seduction. She’d been eager for it. She’d even convinced herself she’d fallen in love. So foolish. So naïve.