Reckless (11 page)

And then before she realized what he'd intended
his fingers dipped lower, into the soft curls between her legs, and she froze.

“No,” she said sharply, trying to pull away.

She'd forgotten how strong he was. He had one arm around her, clamping her body against his, as his other hand continued its wicked descent.

“We're still not finished,” he murmured in her ear, his voice low and wicked. “
You're
not finished.”

She tried to kick out, but he simply trapped her long legs with one of his, as his fingers slid lower, finding that dangerous place he'd found earlier.

She was wet down there, from him as well as her own embarrassing dampness, and his fingers slid easily against her. He did it with insulting ease—one moment she was struggling, fighting, and in the next she'd gone rigid in his arms, every nerve in her body contracting in shameful delight.

He moved his hand, spreading the wetness around her sex, and she caught her breath. He touched her again, harder, longer, with wicked, wicked knowledge of a woman's body, and she cried out as the cruel delight washed over her again, and again.

Finally he moved his hand away, reaching up to cup her chin, pulling her face back so that his mouth could meet hers, and he kissed her as he'd touched her, long, hard and deep. She started to turn toward him when his hand slid down her stomach once more, and she broke the kiss.

“Please,” she begged, desperate. “I can't take any more. Please.”

“You can,” he said, his voice dark and dangerous. “You can take anything I give you.” And when he touched her this time she was shot into a darkness so deep that there was no escape. At the apex of her release she screamed, unable to stop herself.

He turned her in his arms then, and she was sobbing against his chest as he held her, his hands stroking her hair, her tear-streaked face, her trembling mouth. When the last shaky sob died away he kissed her with such tenderness that she wanted to start crying anew.

He was whispering to her, soft, gentle words that made no sense, words of praise, love, pleasure. “Sleep now, angel,” he said. “You need your rest.”

She could feel him now. Somehow he'd gotten hard again, but he seemed in no hurry to do anything about it. “Sleep,” he said, his lips against her brow, brushing her soft skin.

And so she slept.

 

Adrian looked down at the woman in his arms, sleeping so soundly, so trustingly. He'd been a bastard to do this to her—he could face that in the few brief moments of post-coital regret, when his own defenses were at low ebb. He should have left her strictly alone.

He'd already known how dangerous she was to his
self-indulgent peace of mind. He'd been fascinated by her furtive glances, her well-hidden longing. He'd wanted her for a long time now, he realized, wanted her badly, and he'd been too proud and too vain to admit it. Adrian, Viscount Rohan could have anyone, all the great beauties of London and Paris. Why was he wasting his time with an overtall gawky virgin no one else wanted? Older than he was, though only by a trifle, with ivory skin and freckles and long, luscious legs and he must be mad to be so obsessed with her.

He should have escorted her straight back to the house, accompanied by a stern lecture on the dangers of such reckless curiosity. Or even better, found a servant to take her back. She'd been an idiot to come out here in the first place. If he were a better man he could have rescued her from the mess she'd walked into.

But of course, he wasn't made to be the noble hero. And there would have been no one he could hand her off to—in fact he was less dangerous than most of his compatriots in sin. He shuddered to think what Cousin Etienne would have done to her.

A shaky sigh escaped her as she slept, and he told himself what a bastard he was. At least he'd pulled out at the last minute. In time, he hoped. Just to be certain, he'd make sure Lina shared the herbal infusion ladies of the ton swore by to avoid unwanted preg
nancies. He could just imagine his father's reaction. The hypocritical bastard would flay him alive.

His mother, though, would be thrilled.

He rose from the bed, crossing the room to a stand that held an ewer of fresh water and a bowl. He washed, then poured clean water and towels and soaked them. He glanced back at the bed. She was sound asleep, and he shouldn't wake her, but she'd probably be feeling sore and sticky and generally uncomfortable. In truth he'd never had a virgin before, though certain members of the Heavenly Host preferred them, but he could imagine she might be feeling slightly abused. And he wanted her again.

He wasn't that fastidious—he would happily take her already covered with his seed, but he imagined she might balk. He slid back into the bed beside her, tucking her against his body, and began to wash her, slowly, lingeringly.

She opened her eyes drowsily. “Hush, love,” he murmured, putting the warm damp cloth between her legs. “You'd probably prefer to soak in a bath, and I'll have my servant arrange it when he comes, but in the meantime this might help. Are you hurting?”

She looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. “When your servant comes you'll let me go?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “You won't want to.”

“I want to now,” she said with sleepy defiance.

He leaned over and brushed his mouth against
hers, and he moved the wet cloth carefully, the heel of his hand pressing down on her clitoris while he slowly stroked her.

She made a muffled sound against his mouth, one of pleasure, and she lifted her hips towards his hand, his gentle stroking. He moved his lips to her ear, biting the plump lobe for a moment before whispering again, “Are you still in pain?”

He could find other ways to give her pleasure, to take his own, but for some reason he wanted to be inside her again. Maybe he wasn't a total bastard, because he would give her time to…

To what? He certainly wasn't going to wait until she healed. He was hard, and he wanted her now, and there was no reason why he shouldn't take her.

He pulled the damp cloth away and dropped it on the floor, then reached for her. She was already half asleep again, and she moved toward him willingly, tucking her head against his shoulder, her hand on his arm, sighing deeply as her body relaxed against his. Trustingly.

He froze, and an ugly sneer twisted his mouth. He'd really managed to shag her brains out, he thought. She should be fighting him, remembering he was the worst thing in the world for her. Instead she was sleeping in his arms like a trusting orphan.

Then again, she was the worst thing in the world for him. Because she was turning him into a dead
bore, when he'd much rather be his wicked, selfish self. There was nothing he could do about it. He simply ignored his aching cock, put his arms around her and let himself sleep.

E
tienne de Giverney, the ci-devant Comte de Giverney, rose from the bed. Ci-devant—he despised that term. From before, it meant. An insult to the Bourbon aristocracy who were now, in the blood-soaked streets of Paris, mere citizens.

His cousin, Francis Rohan, had blithely handed over the title when he'd left France, the title that should have been Etienne's from birth. A lawyer had drafted a letter to the king, and voilà, all was made right for a few short years. He'd left the tiny surgery where he'd grudgingly worked and enjoyed the life he'd deserved, in the huge old house in Paris, in the countryside château.

The château was rubble now—burned and trashed. He liked to think some of his servants had died inside, but more likely they were the ones attacking the place. His servants had always hated him.

The hotel in Paris was now some sort of
government office, he'd heard. Government! It was to laugh. The canaille could no more govern themselves than they could walk on water. It would only be a matter of time before the bloody new regime would be overthrown, and all the ci-devant aristos would be back where they belonged.

In the meantime, he was an exile, basically penniless, though at least the English respected his title. And his cousin Francis had been generous, as always, inspired, no doubt, by a guilty conscience. Except someone like Francis Rohan, Marquess of Haverstoke, didn't possess a conscience.

It was more likely his wife, with her stupid English sense of honor. She'd done her best to make Francis abandon his profligate ways, ensuring him a damnably long life. How Etienne despised her for her softness. No Frenchwoman would be so weak as to attempt to tame her husband.

Ah, but there was Rohan's son, Adrian, Viscount Rohan. As his father had been granted a higher rank by a foolish English king, his son had taken one of his lesser titles, and at least Adrian was well on his way to the early death his father should have enjoyed. Etienne had taken him under his wing, much to the marquess's disapproval, which of course had only made Adrian more determined. He'd introduced him to all sorts of pleasures, any number of which could foreshorten his life. The English were so ridiculously conventional. Adrian liked to think of himself as a
true libertine, a man without a soul or conscience, when in fact he still held to a ridiculous set of rules. Morality was for weaklings; it would be Adrian's undoing.

He wondered who he'd disappeared with. Etienne made certain he kept close to his young cousin. Last he'd seen him he'd been following a young monk. It was too much to hope that the coltish figure in the habit was male. He didn't recognize the woman's walk, but he wasn't concerned. One aristocratic English whore was much like the other. If Adrian developed an attachment, which so far he'd shown no signs of doing, then Etienne could handle the situation with his usual cold-blooded efficiency.

But there was no hurry. If Adrian continued on the path he was leading, the marquess of Haverstoke would be without an heir in no time. His first son had died of an ague ten years before, and Adrian looked to be following shortly, if Etienne had his way. And when he died, all that lovely money and the estates would go to Etienne, as well as the new English title and the old ones.

In the meantime, he was content to wait. Adrian would take care of his own early demise quite handily, and in the meantime, Etienne was enjoying his English life very much, thank you.

He moved to the bowl of water and began to wash the blood off his hands. It was a good thing his own servant, Gaston, accompanied him. Gaston could
dispose of the well-paid courtesan who'd shared his bed last night, burn the blood-soaked sheets. He'd been in quite a frenzy last night. By today he was calmed, ready to partake in more genteel English customs.

The whore was staring at him, glassy-eyed, unmoving. She'd stopped screaming several hours ago, and her eyes were dull with hatred.
Tant pis
. He would pay her off, and in the dark no one would notice her scars.

There would be a picnic on the grass this morning. He could count on numerous partners beneath the springtime sun, and by the time he returned to his allotted cell there would be no sign of last night's play.

Still, he was curious about Adrian's choice. It wasn't the Countess of Whitmore—he'd seen her rushing off in the opposite direction with a good-looking servant, clearly intent on a little roll in the mud. Adrian never kept a woman for more than one night—he'd see who she was at breakfast this morning and then he could decide whether he had anything to worry about.

Which was unlikely. In the three years since Etienne had been exiled, Adrian had held no long-term relationships. He would scarcely start one at a gathering of the Mad Monks.

He laughed to himself. The Mad Monks. The English were so ridiculous in their sins, cloaking them
in costume and folderol. At least Adrian preferred, like his cousin, to sin openly. It made his job so much easier.

The woman on the bed tried to speak, but no words came out. He cast a last, curious glance at her, and then walked out into the early-morning sunshine, whistling jauntily.

 

“
There was a young tinker from Barton

Who wanted a use for his…
”

“I don't suppose there's any way I can convince you to regale Montague with something other than obscene poetry?” Simon Pagett said in a world-weary voice.

“What would you suggest instead?” Lina said sharply. “An improving sermon? I imagine he's already heard enough of yours.”

“Children, children,” Montague said faintly. “Don't squabble. Simon, it wouldn't do you any harm to listen to a few naughty poems. I assure you, Lady Whitmore is quite gifted in their composition. And Lina, my precious, Simon's sermons are actually quite interesting. I would never tolerate him as the new curate if they weren't.”

“Don't try to convince me that you were actually going to attend church once he took over, Monty,” Lina said. “I wasn't born yesterday.”

“No, I do think that's going to be quite out of the question, don't you?” Monty said with a breath of a
sigh. “Why don't the two of you go off somewhere and browbeat each other until you come up with a solution. I'm perfectly willing to tolerate either the sacred or the profane.”

A wave of guilt washed over Lina, and she held his thin hand. “Oh, darling, I'm sorry. Of course you don't want to hear all this brangling going on about you.”

“My precious, you're crushing my fingers.”

She immediately released his hand, but found herself casting a worried glance at Simon Pagett. She had been putting no pressure at all on her friend's frail hand, and yet even that had hurt. “Sometimes I don't know my own strength,” she said with a shaky laugh, turning back. Monty's color was ashen, his lips bloodless, but his eyes were still sharp.

“Indeed, darling, I don't think you do,” Monty said in a soft voice.

Lina moved away from the bed, letting Simon take her place. Why, in God's name had she turned to look at him, as if for help? There was no help coming from someone like Simon Pagett. She was anathema to him, and he was nothing more than a prosing annoyance. Monty didn't need to be subjected to someone lecturing him during the last few days or weeks of his life. He'd always sinned on a grand scale—it was disheartening to see him diminished to a repentant sinner.

“As for you, my dear Simon,” Monty continued,
looking up into the vicar's lined face, “you need to treat my darling Lina with more respect. She has stayed by me when most others were off consorting with Satan or whatever other bauble has caught their eye at these gatherings.”

“You don't know?” Simon demanded, appalled. “You host these gatherings and you have no idea what your guests are doing?”

“Oh, I imagine some of them are trying to summon Old Scratch, but since I don't believe in his existence I hardly need to worry about it. They're just children playing games, the ones who aren't busy with rousing fornication.” He glanced at Lina. “Hard to believe this straitlaced fellow ever knew a thing about fornication, isn't it, Lina? But he did. He had quite the reputation.”

She really hadn't wanted to be dragged into the conversation, but for Monty's sake she turned back. “Very hard to believe. I suppose, then, that there must be redemption for us all,” she said lightly. “Even whores like me.”

It was an ugly word, and Monty looked distressed. “I think he's having a bad influence on you, my dear. You aren't usually so self-critical. Trust me, compared to some ladies I know, you've been a model of restraint.” He glanced at Pagett. “If you're going to make Lina feel bad about herself then you'll have to leave, dear boy. I can't have my darling girl feeling sad.”

Simon had remained noticeably silent on the matter. “Everyone has to feel sad at some point in their lives, Thomas. And Lady Whitmore doesn't need my approval for how she chooses to spend her life—she only needs her own.”

“Enough with the spiritual doublespeak,” Monty said fretfully. “You two will simply have to learn to get along. I can't have you fighting over my deathbed—I prefer to be the center of attention at all times. Either the two of you go off and make peace, or you can set up a schedule of visiting with me where you won't have to see the other. Either way, I need a rest. Go away.”

This was the second time Monty had told her to go off with his disapproving friend. She cast a suspicious glance at the pale man before rising. She could assume this was simply Monty having a temper tantrum, with no ulterior motive, but there had never been anything simple about Monty.

He continued to look fretful and exhausted, and she couldn't tell whether she was imagining things or not. And then Simon Pagett was by her side, his hand on her elbow, leading her away. “You always were a rude bastard,” he said in a cool voice. “I'll do my best to convince Lady Whitmore to go away and leave you to me—it's no more than you deserve.”

“You won't succeed,” she said.

He glanced down at her, and for a moment she was caught, staring up into his brown eyes. Odd, she
would have thought brown eyes would be warm and comforting. His were dark and almost bleak. “You underestimate my determination, Lady Whitmore.”

“You underestimate mine.”

She half expected Monty to shoo them off again, but when she glanced back at him he'd slipped into a restless sleep.

She tried to pull away from her unwilling partner, but his hand on her upper arm was almost bruisingly tight, and he whisked her out of the sickroom before she could even open her mouth to protest.

“You don't want to wake him up,” Simon said, loosening his hold once the door was closed. “He'll need all the sleep he can get. And you can surely stand my company for a bit while we thrash things out. After all, we do have the same goal in mind. A peaceful passing for someone we both love.”

That sounded much too intimate for Lina's peace of mind, but she decided not to argue. “Indeed,” she said calmly enough, hoping to disguise the pain it brought her.

“I've told the servants to set lunch out on the terrace. We can talk without being overheard, and we'll be close enough should Montague need us.”

This was fraught with a number of annoyances. First off, what right did he have to high-handedly order lunch, assuming she'd eat it? And to call Monty by his seldom-used first name. And why should he assume she wanted to hear anything he had to say?
He was the vicar and Monty's old friend, she gathered, but still—what right did he have coming in and making decisions and issuing orders?

And what was Monty doing? If she didn't know better she'd suspect him of attempting the single most ridiculous matchmaking in the history of the world. Or maybe it just appealed to Monty's sense of the absurd. One of society's most soiled doves and a pillar of the church. He probably thought if he threw them together enough sparks would fly.

They certainly did. Simon Pagett was looking down at her with what had to be contempt. Oh, to be sure he was all that was polite, at least up to a point, but she knew what lurked beneath his passive exterior. Well, so what? She found him similarly distasteful. They would have to be the last two people on earth to ever consider being attracted to each other.

During her nightmare marriage she'd only tried for help once. Bruised, frightened, she'd escaped to their local vicar, begging for help, for advice, for rescue.

The old man had folded his hands across his ample stomach and told her it was the woman's joy and duty to submit. And that he wished to hear no more complaints.

When she'd returned home she discovered that the vicar had preceded her return with a note to her husband, disclosing their conversation. That was the first night he'd beaten her into unconsciousness.

She'd never set foot inside a church again.

And now this…this
man
dared to look at her with what she was certain was opprobrium, judging her. “I'll eat in my room,” she said and whirled away from him.

He caught her arm again, pulling her back around. “You'll eat with me,” he said calmly. “You don't want the servants to know we're fighting.”

“I don't give a damn what the servants think,” she snapped.

She almost thought she saw a smile in the back of those dark eyes. “In fact, neither do I, but Montague would hear of it and then he'd start this ridiculous matchmaking all over again. We're better off pretending to go along with it.”

She could feel the color rise to her face. “I hadn't realized you suspected it, too.”

“I've known Montague all his life—it would tickle his sense of the ridiculousness.”

She'd thought the very same thing, but for some reason hearing the words from his mouth was particularly annoying. “I'm an extremely wealthy widow, sir,” she said in an icy tone, “and not unattractive. Most men wouldn't consider me a ridiculous choice.”