Reckless (22 page)

He was looking at her quizzically. “Aren't you going to slap me?” he said. “I'd appreciate it if you didn't—I'm in a great deal of pain already, though I expect in your case it's not much of a deterrent. So we've established I deserved this beating. Did I deserve to die?”

She made a concerted effort to get past her emotions. “Die? Was someone trying to kill you?”

“I was set upon by street ruffians, who were clearly intent on killing me. If Pagett hadn't shown up we wouldn't be having this conversation.”

She ignored the dark pain in her heart at the thought. “Why would someone want to kill you? Of course, that's a ridiculous question—I would like to kill you. I'm sure countless other women would as well. But I think that most of us wouldn't have bothered hiring thugs—we'd rather have the pleasure ourselves. Who have you offended?”

He seemed amused. “Most everyone, though I would presume not to the point of killing me. If someone wanted me dead I would think they'd challenge me to a duel. Of course, I'm a fairly lethal shot, and if someone challenged me I could choose the weapons, so perhaps my enemies are cowards. Right now you're the only one I can think of who'd want me dead, and while I sympathize, I don't think
you'd have time to arrange it. I'd just left Curzon Street when they set upon me.”

“You live on Curzon Street,” Charlotte pointed out. “Why were you leaving there?”

For a moment he looked uncomfortable. And then he laughed. “I may as well be truthful. I was going to see if I could find some way past Lady Whitmore and finish what we'd started.”

The day was very quiet. She could hear the sounds of birds in the distance, the quiet hum of bees in the late-spring flowers. A soft breeze had picked up, pulling at his hair so that it fell into his face. She wanted to reach up and brush it away, but she kept her hands still.

“I assumed you would have taken care of the problem yourself,” she said, then wished she'd kept her mouth shut as his smile widened.

“My hands are not nearly as much fun as yours. Though I suppose I could have closed my eyes and pretended…”

It was awful being so fair-skinned—she could feel hot color stain her cheeks. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “That was most improper of me.”

“Aren't we past the point of being proper with each other?”

“I think we should do our best to return to that state. We're likely to run into each other on occasion, and we'd be better off pretending we never…er…never…”

“Tupped?” he offered helpfully. “Swived? Shagged? Screwed? Fucked? There are any number of words for it.”

“Are they all so ugly?”

He moved closer to her, as if he couldn't help himself. “I don't think they're ugly at all. They're honest. Physical. Arousing. Come to bed with me.”

The last followed so suddenly upon the previous words that for a moment she didn't comprehend. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.” His voice was low and hungry. “Come to bed with me. It's a huge house—no one will walk in on us. We'll find a place. A nice, private place. I want you, I've been driven mad with wanting you, and nothing I do seems to change it. Take my hand and come with me.”

The blood was pounding in her body. In her ears, between her legs, in her heart. Time seemed to stand still. Now was the time to claim her revenge. Now was the time to finish it for good. To say “no, thank you” very politely and walk away. There were hundreds of other women he could have. He was poison for her, beautiful, glittering poison. Walk away, she told herself.

He put his hand out, his long, gorgeous fingers outstretched to her. She stared down at them, and to her astonishment she saw a faint tremor.

“Yes,” he said. “I'm shaking, I want you so badly. What do you want me to do, Charlotte? Beg?”

She knew the answer, they both knew the answer, but neither of them spoke it. He'd make a terrible husband—he'd whore and gamble and drink and break her heart.

“What do you want, Charlotte?” he said again, sounding almost angry.

She met his hard blue eyes. “You.”

H
e took her hand in his, his grip sure and steady, and led her into the house. She followed him almost in a daze. Was she really doing this? She most certainly was.

He was lying to her, of course. Not for one moment did she believe he was so caught up with longing for her that he'd throw caution to the winds. And yet he seemed to be doing just that. A romp between the sheets at a notorious gathering was one thing. With a pillar of the church and a vengeful Lina around there was a good chance he'd be forced into marrying her.

So why was he taking such a chance?

He said he'd been mad with wanting her. The madness she could believe. The wanting was more of a question. He'd let her go last night, and she still wasn't sure who'd won that particular battle. If she thought she'd proven she could walk away from him,
she'd failed. He might be convinced she was invulnerable. She knew she couldn't think, couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. All she could do was long for him.

No, he must be lying about how much he wanted her. Once more he was trapped someplace without a more beautiful, experienced alternative. But he was such a lovely liar that she was willing to believe him.

Just as she'd believed him when he told her they were both trapped in the room near the abbey, and he'd lied about that as well. He could have had anyone else, and he'd chosen her.

In the end, his reasons didn't matter. This was her choice, her decision. She would have him, for an hour, for a day, for as long as he wanted. She was tired of lying to herself.

The servants looked at them curiously as he pulled her through the house. It was a huge old place, with whole wings of it shut down. He seemed to know his way around it—within a few minutes they were climbing higher and higher into a part of the place that clearly hadn't been occupied in decades.

“Where are we going?” Not that it mattered. She would follow him anywhere.

“The children's rooms,” he replied. “Unfortunately Montague hasn't been able to fill them.” He glanced back at her. “We used to visit Montague's family when we were young. My sisters and I were relegated
to the nursery, while my brother got to sleep in the main part of the house. I was very jealous.”

“You have an older brother?”

“No,” he said. “Not anymore. He died.”

Of course he did, she thought, stricken. He wouldn't be Viscount Rohan if there was an older son to take the title. She didn't make the mistake of saying she was sorry—his voice precluded sympathy. Clearly it was a pain that still clung to him.

He pushed open the door to a room shrouded in shadows and Holland covers, and pulled her in, closing the door behind them. He dropped her hand, and they stood there in the darkness, unmoving. “Why did you come with me?”

A trickle of fear danced in her belly, and for a moment she wondered if she was going to be sick again. He'd been toying with her, seeing how far she'd come, and now he was going to laugh at her and tell her he'd never wanted her, that this was revenge for leaving him last night. She panicked, and before he could strike the first blow that would devastate her she managed a cool laugh. “I was bored.”

She could see his responding smile, seeing straight through her. “So was I… Aren't we glad we have each other to keep us entertained in such a tiresome place?” He took a step forward, and without thinking, she backed away, the uncertainty still moving through her body.

“It's not going to work if you do that,” he said softly.

“Maybe that's a better idea.”

“Coward,” he said. He took another step toward her, and she took another one back, coming up against the closed door. He leaned forward and brushed his mouth across hers, so gently it seemed as if she'd imagined it. “Poor Charlotte,” he whispered. “You're as bad as I am.”

“What do you mean?” Her voice was only a thread of sound as his mouth traced the line of her jaw, ending up just beneath her ear, against her throbbing pulse.

“It's a waste of time to keep fighting it. We're doomed. We may as well give in.” His hands were in her hair now, and she heard the hairpins fall on the floor as her neat braids fell loose around her. “Turn around, Charlotte.”

“W-why?”

“Because I want to unlace your dress.”

“Is that strictly necessary?”

He laughed against her throat. “Yes, it's strictly necessary. I want to see you naked. I want to lick every inch of your body. Turn around.”

She turned. His hands were on her back, and she shivered, leaning her forehead against the solid door as she felt his fingers unlace her, deftly, as he'd unlaced so many other women before. She wasn't going
to think about that, she told herself. She wasn't going to think at all.

The dress began to slide, catching on the narrow hoops. And then he set to work on her stays, which was a very good thing since she was having a hard time catching her breath. He freed them, then untied the ribbon that held her hoops and petticoats around her waist.

Everything fell down around her ankles in a
whoosh,
leaving her standing still in her chemise and stockings and drawers. She started to turn, but his hands caught her shoulders, to stop her.

“You're not naked yet.”

“I know,” she said, reaching for asperity and ending up with nervousness.

“I thought we agreed you were going to get naked.”

“You still have your clothes on.”

“So I do,” he said. “Shall we change places?”

She turned then, and he let her. In the half light, with his bruised face, he still looked beautiful. “No,” she said. “You can stay there.” And she reached for his neck cloth.

She'd never removed a man's neck cloth before, and it took her a moment to figure out how to untie its intricate knots. The fact that her hands were shaking didn't make things easier. At one point she tugged when the folds weren't free, and he made a faint
choking sound. “Perhaps I'd better do this myself if I'm going to survive long enough to pleasure you.”

She froze. Suddenly the memory of their first meeting came back to her, when he'd mocked her clumsiness, and she tried to pull back from him.

He wouldn't let her. He caught her hands and placed them against his chest. “You're going to have to figure out how to deal with me, darling Charlotte,” he said, brushing a kiss against the corner of her mouth. “I'm a very insensitive fellow half the time, and if you take offense we'll be spending all our time fighting. Or making up. On second thought, perhaps you should keep getting angry with me.”

“Why?”

“Because when we make up we'll have sex, and it will be delicious.”

“Can't it be delicious without fighting?”

He'd pulled the neck cloth free and handed it to her before dropping his arms. “Why don't we find out,” he said in a soft voice. “Do you think you can manage the buttons?”

She could. He shrugged out of his coat. He was still in riding clothes, so he wore no vest, and the tiny pearl buttons on his snowy shirt were difficult but not impossible. At least she didn't run the risk of strangling him in the process. The shirt opened beneath her fingers, exposing his smooth, beautiful chest with just a faint sifting of hair in the center. She was fascinated by that hair. She pulled the shirt
free from his breeches and pushed it off his shoulders. And then she leaned forward and pressed her face against his chest, rubbing her cheek against the softly furred part, turning her mouth against him and licking delicately, breathing in the scent of him.

He let out a ragged breath. “Get to my breeches,” he begged. “Please.”

“But you said we're in no hurry,” she murmured against his chest. She rubbed her face against him like a kitten, and found herself making soft purring sounds as she did so. While she was luxuriating in the touch and texture of him, he was growing ever more tense.

He took her hand and slid it down the front of his breeches, holding it there against the solid ridge of flesh. She smiled against his skin, moving her mouth downward to the flat bowl of his navel, rubbing, purring, until she sank onto her knees, pressing her cheek against his erection, letting her nose and mouth and chin brush against it through the fine wool of his breeches.

“Oh, merciful God,” he muttered weakly. She put her hands up to his narrow hips, needing to hold on to something, as she caressed him with her face, her mouth, loving the feel, the freedom of it.

He held himself very still, letting her play for long minutes, as he seemed, impossibly, to grow harder and larger beneath the constricting breeches. Finally he spoke, and it sounded as if the words were being
forced out. “I hate to bother you,” he said politely enough, “but my breeches are becoming positively painful. At this rate I'm going to pop the stitching. The buttons are at the side.”

Yes, she could feel them beneath her hands as she held him. She decided not to hesitate. These buttons decided to open easily beneath her fingers, and she caught the fabric of his breeches and underdrawers, and pulled them down, releasing him.

Even in the murky light she could see him quite clearly. His heavy penis jutted out, an invitation, and still, oddly enough, a threat. She didn't care. Grasping his hips again, she leaned forward and gently rubbed her face against him, against the solid thrust of him, against the crinkly hair at its base, rubbing and purring, letting her lips brush against his skin, rubbing her eyelids and forehead and mouth against him.

He was trembling now. And she was wet. “Take me in your mouth, Charlotte,” he said with a soft groan. “I beg of you. Suck me.”

She could claim her revenge now, she thought dazedly. She could rise and walk away, leaving him as insanely aroused as she had been the night before.

But she knew what she wanted, and she was tired of games. Very delicately she put her mouth on the tip of him, tasting a strange sweetness.

“More,” he said in an anguished voice. “Please, Charlotte. Take more.”

There was no way she could take all this into her mouth. But she wanted to try. She closed her mouth over the head, circling it, tugging at him. And then she sucked more in, slowly, inch by inch, her tongue touching, tasting, wetting him to make the slide easier. His hands were in her hair, not forcing her, just holding her as she pulled on him, closing tight around her so that her mouth embraced him, held him.

“Can you take more?” he whispered hoarsely.

She released him for a moment to answer, and he let out an anguished cry. “Oh, God, don't stop.”

“You're too big,” she said. But she sucked him in again, going deeper, taking more of him, so much that he brushed the back of her throat, and she made a little singing noise of pleasure.

She'd never imagined feeling like this, wanting this so badly. It was doubtless perversion, but she loved it, loved the taste of him, the feel of such strength inside her mouth, the way her tongue could sweep against him, the way her mouth could wrap around him. He was prompting her, and she realized he wanted her to move up and down on him, as if he were between her legs and not in her mouth. And as his pleasure grew, and his strong legs began to tremble, so did hers, so that when he suddenly pulled her away she cried out in distress, fingers digging into his hips, trying to pull him back.

Instead he hauled her to her feet. “You're not quite
ready for that part, love,” he said, and for a moment she was mystified.

She looked up at him. “What part? What happens next?”

“You know what happens next,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I spill my seed.”

“And then what happens that I'm not ready for?”

“You swallow it.”

She started to sink to her knees again, but he laughed a shaky laugh. “You'd be better served if you gave me a moment to regain my self-control and let me remove my boots. It's the least a gentleman can do.”

“And you're such a gentleman.”

“Not with you, love. But I'm trying.”

He leaned against one of the covered beds, pulling first one boot off and then the other with more ease than she would have expected. And then his clothes followed, and he was naked, gorgeous, just a little bit frightening.

“Take off your chemise and your drawers,” he said. “You don't want me tearing them again. You'd soon run out of clothes.”

She was suddenly shy. Silly way to be, considering what she'd just done to him, but her hands shook and she wondered how she could reach up under the chemise without exposing herself to his curious eyes—

He moved forward, took the hem of the chemise
and whipped it over her head with one smooth movement. And a second later, the drawstring to her drawers was loosened, and they fell to her feet, and she was wearing nothing at all but her stockings.

“Oh, God,” he said, a curse, a supplication, a prayer. He pushed her up against the door, just behind her, lifted her by her legs and thrust inside her, hard.

She was shocked by his sudden move, his immediate invasion. That they were standing shocked her, that it felt so good. He slid deep, painlessly, and she knew that was why she was wet. For him. She threw her arms around his neck, holding on tightly, as her body did what her mouth had done, clasping him, holding him, as he thrust up into her, a hard, steady, relentless rhythm that had her gasping for breath, shivering in reaction, unable to move herself as he pinned her against the door, simply receiving his half-frantic thrusts, wanting more and more.

His skin was covered with a thin film of sweat, his face against her neck, his fingers tight on her hips. A climax rocked her, the climax she'd been cheated of the night before, and she could feel herself shatter, losing all sense of anything but the blinding, mindless pleasure he gave her.

He held still, letting her ripple and clench around him, and when the first throes had died he swung her away from the door, never breaking their joining, carrying her across the room to the Holland-covered
bed. He tried to set them both down without breaking their connection but she tumbled away from him and he slipped free, and she found she could giggle.