Reckless (18 page)

“Do you expect me to be shamed by that? How foolish of you, to let a dandy's stray comments affect you. If I listened to all the malicious things people have to say about me, I'd be curled up in a ball somewhere.” He paused, looking at her. “Is that what you did? After I effectively demolished you?”

“You don't even remember,” she muttered, not wanting to look at him.

“Lady Harrison's. You were wearing some abominable pink creation that clashed with your glorious copper hair. We danced a country dance, a complicated one, I believe. I think it was ‘Prince William.'”

To this day Charlotte couldn't hear the strains of “Prince William” without feeling ill. She stared at him in disbelief.

“And you remember all this because…?” she said severely.

His half smile was barely visible in the coach. “Because I'm seldom such a total bastard, and I try not to pick on the defenseless. You looked so crushed that I never forgot it.”

“And this is the way you apologize? By abducting me?”

“No, my precious. My apology was that delicious fuck we had three weeks ago. Abducting you now, as
you insist on calling it, is my way of repeating that most excellent activity.”

She stared at him, openmouthed in astonishment at his gall.
How dare you
was too mild a response—she simply stared at him in disbelief. And then she moved, lunging for the door.

The carriage was going at a fast clip, and she was halfway out the door when he caught her, dragging her back in before she could tumble to the hard, filthy streets. She landed on the floor, and he held her there as he locked the carriage door.

“You idiot,” he said, all humor and sly seduction vanishing. “You could have been killed. I don't travel at a leisurely pace—you could have broken your neck.”

“Good,” she snapped.

“Death before dishonor? Too late, my precious. I've already dishonored you quite completely, and I have every intention of doing so again.”

She lunged for the door again, but he caught her easily enough, pulling her up onto the seat. And then he let go of her.

“You're so gullible, precious,” he said in a weary voice. “How many times must I tell you I won't force you. Did I make you do anything you didn't want to do?”

“You tricked me,” she said darkly. “You seduced me into it.”

“Of course. That was my intention. I'm very good
at what I do. Isn't that the reason you gave in? If you were going to have sex, it might as well be with a master.”

“So humble, too,” she murmured.

He moved his mouth close, so close. “Accept it, sweet Charlotte. I can take you home with me and make you come just by kissing your breasts, and you know it. Don't you, love? And you want me inside you.”

She was having trouble breathing. She could almost feel his mouth on her as the words hit her ears. Her nipples hardened against her corset, and she felt wet between her legs.

At this rate he could make her come just by talking to her.

Adrian Rohan was a dangerous man. Too dangerous for her.

“No,” she said, her voice wobbling slightly when she wanted it firm. “I'm telling you no.”

“All right,” he said amiably, not at all shattered by her rejection. “There are endless women who'd happily lift their skirts for me. I don't need to force anyone. I thought you might enjoy another taste of the forbidden, but since you so clearly regret our time together I'll find someone else.”

Her head was going to explode. She needed her mask, but in their wrestling match it had been crushed. She reached behind her for the hood of the domino and tried to pull it over her head, but his
hands caught hers. “No, you don't. Not that I don't despise the hair powder—that must have been Lady Whitmore's asinine idea. It's a crime to cover hair as glorious as yours.”

“Stop it,” she said. Good. Her unshed tears were making her voice hoarse, and it came out sounding calm and angry. “Why did you…did you…?”

“Why did I fuck the sweet hell out of you a few weeks ago at the gathering of the Heavenly Host? Because you were there, and I must admit I enjoyed myself tremendously. I'm afraid I don't need a great deal of motivation for these things. In your case I imagine it was the novelty of it all. I'd forgotten all about you, and then there you were, right in front of me. Just like tonight. I have to say it seems like Providence, since I hadn't made any other arrangements for female companionship tonight. But if you'd rather not, then so be it. Perhaps Lady Whitmore might be interested in providing me with entertainment.”

His calm, cruel words were like knives, and yet she didn't flinch. Later, when she was alone, the words would sink in, but for right now she was too angry, too proud to let him see how he'd wounded her.

“I doubt Lina would be interested,” she said in a cool voice. “She doesn't usually want my leftovers.”

“Brava,” he said softly. “Fight back.”

Which was exactly what she planned to do. “As
for novelty, you'd be a fool to try to repeat it. You can only deflower someone once, and as you've pointed out, I'm hardly the kind of woman you usually dally with. You prefer beauties, women who are adept at pleasing a man, who know all sorts of tricks and games to please you. You wouldn't want to bother with a clumsy spinster again.”

“True… But she was so delightfully besotted with me.”

She wanted to kill him. If she'd had a knife she probably would have stabbed him. As it was, she had nothing but words to hit back with.

“You took care of that, my lord,” she said, not bothering to deny it. “One night with you is a most effective cure.”

It was supposed to infuriate him. Instead he laughed softly. “Of course it is. And it was two nights. You don't want me to kiss you, do you?”

“The thought disgusts me.”

He moved closer, and she could feel his body heat in the cool night air. “And you don't want my mouth on your breasts, sucking your nipples into hard little berries.”

It didn't need his mouth—his words had had the same effect as she felt her nipples tighten. Fortunately he couldn't see beneath the layer of clothes she wore. “Absolutely not.”

“And you don't want my mouth between your legs,
my tongue teasing you into such peaks of pleasure that you cry out?”

She was wet now. He probably knew it, but it didn't matter. “I'm not fond of perversion.”

“I suppose that means I can't talk you into taking my cock into your mouth then.”

She was so shocked she couldn't find the words to refute it. Finally she said, “You sick bastard.”

“Oh, my love, not sick at all. It's quite lovely, and some women, the very best of women, enjoy it as well. So I gather this means you don't want me inside you, riding you, pumping you, making you cry and scream with pleasure?”

“You're a pig,” she snapped.

“It's a pig's world. So the answer is no, my precious?”

The smug, cruel bastard. The beautiful, wicked, hurtful man with the hands of a devil and the mouth of an angel. He would take her back to Grosvenor Square, and she would slink into the house, go up to her room and curl up into the ball he talked about.

“The answer is yes,” she said. And had the pleasure to see his face freeze in shock.

N
ever would Adrian Rohan have thought that a woman's acquiescence would send a cold chill down his back. It had no effect on his cock, which had been painfully hard since he'd put his hands on her, which had been at least at half-mast since he'd spotted her on the dance floor and moved heaven and hell to join her set. This was supposed to be a salutary lesson, a way to get over her. Instead he was seducing himself as he was seducing her.

She was supposed to slap his face, demand that the carriage take her to Grosvenor Square, and he would cheerfully accept her dismissal, proving to her, and to him, how little she mattered.

Instead it was all he could do to keep from throwing her down on the seat, yanking up her skirts and taking her.

And she'd said yes. He didn't bother to hide his astonishment. Though he could…ahem…rise to the
occasion. “I beg your pardon? Was that agreement I hear? How delightfully refreshing. I thought you decided to regrow your hymen and be the same prissy, starched-up female you were before I put my wicked hands on you.”

Now he was sorry he hadn't lit the carriage lights. He couldn't see her expression very well, and she seemed to have turned the tables on him.

In fact, that was probably why she'd done it. She was calling his bluff. Or was it the other way around? He was the cardplayer—he was usually much better at sizing up his opponents.

He could imagine that she had her hands in her lap, clasped tightly, but her voice was calm and smooth. “Like you, my lord, I had no other plans for this evening short of returning home with my cousin. If you're that desperate to have me I could hardly argue. It's quite flattering.”

“Well played,” he said softly. “And now it's my turn to tell you that I'm not the slightest bit desperate. That I chose you simply to torment you—that picking on lovelorn virgins… I beg your pardon, I forgot that you are no longer a virgin. Picking on lovelorn
spinsters
is better entertainment than sampling the pussy at Madame Kate's.” He wondered if she knew that word. From the slight flinch he decided that she probably did.

“Are you trying to hurt my feelings, Lord Rohan?
If you receive such pleasure from inflicting pain I'm surprised you didn't suggest you whip me.”

“What do you know of whips, child?” he said with a laugh.

“I live with Lina, in case you've forgotten. She's quite…broad-minded when it comes to her search for pleasure. Though from my experience men usually prefer to be the ones who are whipped, not the ones delivering the pain.”

“I'm not like other men—haven't you realized that yet? And I doubt I'd trust you enough to give you the upper hand. I could end up with the very skin flayed from my body.”

“We could see,” she said sweetly.

Damn, he was enjoying himself, he realized. After his initial shock at her seeming agreement, he was finding this sparring the best thing in weeks. “You're quite surprisingly resilient, Miss Spenser. I would have expected you to go into a languishing decline after my rough treatment of you.”

“Was that rough?” she asked innocently. “It perhaps lacked a bit of finesse, but you managed well enough.”

He wanted to laugh, he wanted to kiss her. “I didn't really consider you deserved my best effort, since you had absolutely no idea what you were doing.”

“Indeed. I would hope that wasn't your best effort. I would be sadly disappointed if society considered
that
to be masterful.”

“Society does not have an opinion of my expertise in the bedroom.”

“Of course it does. Where do you think you get your nicknames? Skirtchaser. Whoremaster. Libertine. Gamester. Drunkard—”

“Bitch,” he returned pleasantly.

“Oh, dear,” she murmured. “Does that mean you've changed your mind? Perhaps you only like sweet, inexperienced women.”

“Are you going to tell me you've suddenly gained experience other than the quite effective swiving I gave you?” His voice was silken.

“It's been three weeks, my lord.”

“Has it? I haven't been paying any attention.”
Point to me,
he thought.

“Ah, but I've been enjoying myself immensely. I suppose I should thank you for introducing me to the sport of lovemaking. And I don't mean to criticize—you did your best, and for a halfhearted effort it was a good beginning. And truly, I don't mind bedding you again. I'm certain you improve with practice.”

He was quite in awe of her. She was carrying this off beautifully. She was expecting she could infuriate him enough to let her go. Unfortunately the more inventive her insults the more enchanted he was with her imagination. It was, of course, possible that she'd spent the last three weeks imitating her dear friend and shagging everyone in sight. But he sincerely doubted it. She still moved like an innocent.

A woman changed. Not through the magic of sex—the women in his family, in society, still walked demurely, at least for the most part. But women who spent the majority of their lives in their lovers' beds walked differently. With an erotic sway to their hips. A knowing way of carrying themselves certain to draw the attention of any randy young buck.

Charlotte walked like a virgin, kissed like a virgin, reacted to his ridiculous attempt at abducting her like a virgin.

But she fought him like a woman, an angry one. A hurt, abandoned one. And part of him wanted to stop playing this ridiculous game and hold her. The rest of him was having too much fun.

“I'm honored that you're giving me a chance to improve on such a shoddy performance,” he said. And grinned in the darkness when he heard her distressed intake of breath. If she'd ever played cards with him she would have known this wouldn't work. “What else?”

“What else what?” Her voice quieter in the darkness. They were nearing Grosvenor Square—the best way to reach his home was to go directly past Whitmore House. He wondered if she knew that.

“What other insults are you planning to lob at my head?” he said. “They're quite entertaining.”

“I'm so glad I've amused you,” she said, some of her bravado fading. “But in truth, I think we can both agree that what happened three weeks ago is
something not worth repeating. You can certainly find much better company for that sort of thing.”

“But Miss Spenser, now that you have all this expertise, don't you want to form a more experienced opinion on my technical prowess? Size, stamina, imagination…”

She said nothing.

“Admit it, Charlotte,” he said lazily. “You've spent the last three weeks mooning over me. Crying your eyes out over my rude departure. I think you'd give anything to have me again.”

“Do you, indeed? When I've had so much better?”

He laughed softly. “Prove it.”

He heard her swift intake of breath. “I beg your pardon?”

“If you've spent the last three weeks on your back with various men, show me what you learned.”

The coach had pulled to a stop, but no one came to open the door. His servants knew not to disturb him until he rapped on the roof of the carriage.

She sat there frozen, holding her breath. And he was holding his, hoping against hope that she was going to try to continue this charade to its natural conclusion. In his bed.

And then she let it out in a whoosh. “Take me home,” she said in a small voice.

“So you lied.”

“Yes. Take me home. Take me home or I'll scream.”

“I'm shocked,” he said cheerfully. “I would never have thought you'd succumb to such a weak defense. I'll tell you what. We'll wager for your release.”

There was more light coming in the carriage now, and he could see her clearly. Unfortunate, because his wanting her became stronger than ever.

“So you can get away with saying you never rape,” she said bitterly. “I suppose you want to play cards so that you can easily cheat.”

“Nothing so crass. Just come over here and let me kiss you. And then it's up to you whether you go or stay.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “You've already kissed me tonight,” she said flatly. “Half a dozen times, if anyone's counting. And I still want you to let me go.”

“Well, then you shouldn't worry about the wager. You'll win. All you have to do is let me kiss you for, let's say, three minutes, and then if you want to leave I'll have my coach take you straight back to Grosvenor Square.”

He could see her swallow, and he wanted to put his mouth against her throat. He stayed very still.

“I don't think it's a good idea.”

“Why not? I'm perfectly willing to live with the consequences. In fact, it's more than clear that I happen to want you. I don't know why—you're
clumsy and red-haired and too smart for your own good. I'd be much better off with a whore, or at least someone like your friend Lady Whitmore. Someone marginally familiar with the delights of bed sport. But for some inconceivable reason I happen to want you.”

“I'm so flattered,” she said in acid tones.

He knew her weakness. She wanted to be pretty, and thought she wasn't. When in fact he thought she was quite the prettiest thing in his memory. With her sun-flecked skin, her round, gorgeous breasts, her long, exquisite legs. Everything about her was pretty.

But he wasn't going to tell her that. He was going to tell her everything that was wrong with her, in hopes of keeping her away.

“I may want you, but if you say no it won't trouble me. We had unfinished business when I left Sussex. Tonight it will be finished, one way or another. Are you game?”

“And if I refuse?”

He hadn't considered that one. “I suppose I can let you down here and you could walk back to Grosvenor Square. I wouldn't recommend it—a woman alone on London streets might be mistaken for a woman of easy virtue. Which, unfortunately, you are not. Come, my sweet darling, take the wager. We can't sit here all night.”

She looked at him for another long, contemplative moment. “All right.”

He kept his smile hidden. “Come over here and climb on my lap again.”

“We were talking about a kiss and nothing more.”

“No, we were talking about three minutes of kissing and whatever that entails. Surely you don't think I could get into that much trouble in three minutes, do you?”

The blessed girl looked torn. Clearly she had no idea just what he could manage in that period of time. “All right,” she said again, and moved across the seat toward him.

It would have been entertaining to make her climb into his lap, but he had a real fear as to what her knee might hit, so he picked her up and placed her there, crossing his legs to provide a cradle for her. “When do the three minutes start?” she asked, some of her nerves finally showing.

“Now,” he said, one hand pulling her head down to his. The other reaching beneath her skirts.

 

He was ruthless, Charlotte thought dazedly as his mouth covered hers, hot and wet, breathing in her breath, using his tongue with such thoroughness that she started to think it was her favorite part of his body. He leaned back against the seat, pulling her with him so she half sat, half reclined, the ever-
present reminder of his own arousal beneath her bum. His kiss was a reminder of everything she had felt in that small room in Sussex—the emotions, the sheer, blazing passion, even the shame.

And she was lost in it. Lost in him. Just for a moment, just for now, she could have it back, that which she thought was gone for good, and she was done fighting. She felt him slide his hands under her voluminous skirts and she didn't try to stop him. When his fingers slid between her legs she didn't clamp them shut in maidenly modesty, she let him push them apart, touching her in her most private place where she knew she was shamefully wet from his words and his promises, wet and she didn't care. His fingers slid easily amid the moisture, touching the place he'd told her about, the place that held such power over her body, and she whimpered in response.

He moved his mouth across her cheek, to the soft edge of her hairline, and his tongue was at her ear. “That's right, my precious Charlotte. Don't fight me. You'll like this, I promise you.” And he slid one finger inside her, deep.

She arched off his lap, struggling for a moment, but he simply pulled her back against his body, clamping her there, while he replaced one finger with two, as his thumb brushed above.

The feeling was electric, powerful, disturbing. It was one thing when they were both naked in bed, but
here in his coach, fully dressed, the driver above and people walking by on the streets, he was touching her so intimately that she wanted to die of shame. And pleasure.

Her hands had been trapped between them, but when he'd shifted her they were free, and she knew she ought to push his hand away, push his body away. He'd lied, he said he was only going to kiss her, and instead he was doing this unspeakable thing to her.

But instead, she put her arms around his neck and brought his mouth down to hers, kissing him back as he rubbed her, slowly, deliciously, his fingers pushing in deep as he brought her to the very edge of rapture, so that she was barely able to breathe, her fingers clutching him, her hips pushing at him, wanting more, needing more.

It was too much, it wasn't enough. She needed him inside her, she needed him to unfasten his breeches and push her down on the seat and take her, take her now…

And then he stopped. Just as she was about to explode in delight, he pulled his hand away, pulled her skirt back down, caught her arms and set her down beside him on the seat. “Three minutes are up.”

She was shaking, dizzy, unable to think straight, unable to speak. She was having trouble catching her breath, and she clamped her legs together tightly, trying to re-create the feelings he'd been bringing forth. She was so close, so close…