Reckless (6 page)

The man was unmoved. He wasn't a young man—perhaps close to forty if she were to guess by the
deeply etched lines on his face. A handsome face, with deep brown eyes, a straight nose, high cheekbones and a stubborn mouth that on a less disapproving man might almost be called sensuous.

Not on this man.

“You must be the new vicar.”

“You are very perceptive. I'm the Reverend Simon Pagett, here to take up the living.” He glanced down at the sleeping Montague. “Is he dead?” he asked in a voice as cool as hers.

“Of course not!” she hissed. “How could you ask such a thing?”

“Simon's never been one to avoid the truth, no matter how ugly it is.” Monty's voice came from the chaise, sepulchral and amused. “I'm afraid I'm not ready to stick my fork into the wall, dear boy. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Good,” the man said. “That means there's still time to save your soul.” He glanced toward Lina. “And your strumpet's soul as well.”

Lina drew a deep, shocked breath, but Monty chuckled. “You know as well as I do that I haven't changed that much, Simon, even if you have. My strumpets are a different gender. Lina's a dear friend and I'll thank you not to insult her.”

“From the local convent, no doubt,” Simon said politely.

Montague snorted. “You'd best have a care, Simon. This is Lady Whitmore. I have no doubt there are at
least half a dozen of her admirers who would gladly defend her honor from your prudish, judging ways. Of course…the term
honor
…” His smile at Lina took the sting out of his words.

“And where are those half-dozen men, Montague?” Simon said. “When I arrived I saw the carriages, and yet the house seems empty. Where are your licentious playmates?”

“They're at the abbey ruins. I've had it renovated, landscaped. It's really quite delightful, though I doubt you'd appreciate its all-too-human beauty. You'd be shocked.”

“You lost the ability to shock me years ago, though you continue to try. How long have you been ill?” he demanded abruptly.

“It takes a number of years for consumption to kill a man. I don't pay any attention to it.”

“I know you don't,” Simon said severely. “And that's why you're in this current difficulty. You can no longer afford to burn the candle at both ends.”

“It's the only way I know how to live. And I didn't invite you here—you weren't supposed to arrive until my guests were long gone. Unfortunately, thanks to Dodson's interference, you've come at a most inopportune moment.”

“I am desolate,” Simon said dryly.

“Still, I suppose it's just as well. Dodson's infernal meddling has forced Lady Whitmore to miss the first night of the Revels out of kindness for me. Lina, my
pet, why don't you run along and play. You can still catch up with the party—it's not far past midnight. Simon will look after me. He's done it enough times before. I have no doubt you'll be able to find some amiable distraction, even at this ungodly hour. The Heavenly Host never sleep.”

“I'll be lucky if I can find anyone stirring,” Lina said wryly. “They'll all be unconscious from a surfeit of lust and drink.”

Simon Pagett was looking at her. When she turned to meet his gaze his eyes were fixed on Monty, but she could have sworn he'd been watching her…

It was an easy decision to make, and she didn't bother to consider why she made it. “I'm not going anywhere, Monty,” she said, taking the seat she'd abandoned a few hours ago for the dubious comfort of the floor. “There will be plenty of other times of unbridled depravity for me to enjoy. For now I'm not leaving your side.” She cast a sly glance at Simon. “Mr. Pig-ett should feel free to partake of the myriad pleasures the Heavenly Host offers. Perhaps he might understand the nature of the sins he's so roundly condemning.”

“Pagett.” He was calm. And this time when he looked at Lina he didn't try to hide it. “And I assure you, Lady Whitmore, that I have already experienced everything the Heavenly Host has to offer. I'm not interested.” He looked down at Monty. “Despite your friend's deplorable taste in both costume and
companions I think it probably wise for her to remain here. You've never been an easy patient.”

“And you've always been a pain in my arse. Why don't you do as Lina says, and go out to the ruins. Perhaps the decadent souls out there might wish to be saved. I know for a fact they're very fond of succor.” He drew out the last word, long and lasciviously.

“You need to be in bed,” Pagett said, ignoring him. “I'd have Dodson call the doctor but he'd probably wish to bleed you and you're weak enough as it is.” He glanced at Lina. “Would you prefer to go back to your friends, Lady Whitmore? I can make arrangements.”

She wasn't quite sure what she preferred. She certainly wasn't pleased with this soberly dressed, high-handed man “making arrangements” for her.

She ought to get back and make certain Charlotte was all right. Of course, if there had been any question about her cousin's safety she would never have agreed to bring her, but it wouldn't hurt to set her mind at ease.

“Oh, God, don't leave me to Simon's tender mercies!” Montague begged, his eyes sparkling. “He'll have me in a hair shirt before the day is out. Spare me from reformed rakes—they're the very devil. And yes, Simon, I use that term advisedly.”

“I'll stay.” Lina pressed his thin, weak hand with hers.

“I knew I could count on you,” he murmured, casting a speaking look at the vicar.

Lina glanced over her shoulder but Mr. Pagett was expressionless, offering no protest.

She couldn't imagine a man like him succumbing to the lures of the flesh. His lined face seemed preternaturally grave—as if he were born that way—and she couldn't imagine a time when he had laughed, cried, charmed, kissed. He really did have a lovely mouth when it wasn't drawn into a thin line of what was either worry or disapproval, disapproval seeming more likely. It was a shame it wasn't used for more pleasurable purposes than denouncing the sinful.

Dodson had made a reappearance, accompanied by two of Montague's typically handsome footmen.

“Assist Lord Montague to his rooms and make him comfortable,” Simon said in a calm tone that was nonetheless a trifle high-handed. “And Lady Whitmore, may I suggest you change into something more appropriate for the circumstances?”

Prudish little toad, Lina thought rebelliously, ignoring the fact that Simon was neither little nor toad-like. “I thought the habit was eminently suitable, Mr. Pagett, given the spiritual aspect of the occasion and my nursing skills.”

In another man she might have recognized humor in his eyes. But this one was surely devoid of humor, and that light in his dark eyes must be impatience. “I wasn't objecting to the nun's habit, Lady Whitmore.
I merely thought the décolletage was a bit extreme for a sickroom, and I assumed you preferred to be fashionable. You may wear whatever you please.”

“Thank you for your kind permission,” she said with only the faintest bite beneath her soft tone. In fact, she'd forgotten that beneath the rounded white collar of the habit the plain black dress was cut very low, ostensibly to allow men to survey her bounty before she actually divested herself of her clothes. She resisted the impulse to yank her dress up higher. Her breasts were firm and well shaped; let the dour clergyman look his fill.

“You have a point, Mr. Pagett,” she murmured. “Though it's a shame when you and I are so particularly matched. In costume, at least.”

For a brief moment the words hung in the air, seeming to take on a different meaning. And then Pagett scowled at her, ignoring her breasts as few men had managed in the past ten years. “I doubt we would find we have anything else in common,” he said, sounding irritable. “Perhaps it would be better if you were to join your fellow sybarites…”

“I will stay.” In fact, she'd considered slipping away, but most likely Charlotte was in the room they were sharing, sound asleep.

The footmen were already carrying Montague from the candlelit salon amidst his weak curses and languid protests. The look Simon Pagett cast her was far from promising. “He's in safe hands with me,
Lady Whitmore, no matter what he says. It would probably make things a great deal simpler if you went and joined the others.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “And it would doubtless make things a great deal simpler if you returned from whence you came and waited until you were supposed to show up. Sometime next week, I collect?”

At first he didn't answer her, and she had the odd, uncomfortable sensation that he saw her too clearly. “Why would you suppose any such thing?”

“Because Montague would scarcely invite a stick-in-the-mud, disapproving parson to a house party composed of notorious libertines, would he?”

Now she could see for certain—he was amused. It barely touched the corners of his fine eyes, and his mouth kept its grim, uncompromising line. Nevertheless, he was amused.

“You think not, Lady Whitmore? In fact, he was expecting me tomorrow, and the Revels usually last a good four days, do they not?”

“Only three this time.” She didn't stop to wonder why he'd know that much.

His lips curved in a cool smile. “Perhaps Montague is beginning to accept the fact that he is mortal after all. I expect he hoped to be strong enough to enjoy at least a part of the Revels, and to rub my nose in it.” He stared down at her for a long moment, as if he'd forgotten what he was going to say.

She was feeling oddly breathless. If he wasn't going to speak, then she should, rather than stand there in that awkward silence. Of course, the way to break it would be to excuse herself, and that was exactly what she should do. Except she didn't want to.

There was an arrested expression in his eyes, and the silence held. Until something made him come to his senses, and he turned away with a short, dismissive laugh. “Montague will be resting for the next few hours, once the doctor leaves. You may as well get some rest yourself.

“We've got an arduous battle ahead and you'll need your strength.”

“Battle?” she echoed, confused. “Battle for what?”

“Montague's immortal soul.” He turned, then looked back for a moment. “And likely yours as well.”

And without another word he was gone.

F
or a first kiss it was not bad, Adrian thought coolly. Charlotte Spenser froze as his mouth touched hers, too shocked to do anything more, and Adrian pressed his advantage, pulling her closer against his body, wrapping his arms around her so she couldn't escape easily, and proceeded to work on seducing her mouth first. He slid one hand up to her gold-rimmed glasses, slipped them off and deliberately dropped them on the ground before she even knew what he'd done.

She could probably feel his iron-hard erection beneath her silly monk's habit, even if she didn't know what it was. Quite impressive—he hadn't been this excited so early in the game for a long time. He usually needed his partner to be completely naked and under him before he reached this dangerous point, further proof that he'd been far too interested in Charlotte Spenser to begin with.

She was struggling, just slightly, making a
distressed sound, and he silently cursed. She was going to have to be handled very carefully or she might bolt, and he'd be honor bound to let her go. Assuming he still possessed a degree of honor.

Except that he knew she wanted this, or would if well-bred, virginal young women had any honesty. If he could just manage to convince her to let go of it all, this could be quite revelatory for both of them.

He lifted his mouth from hers, just barely, and looked down into her shocked, wide-open eyes, now without the annoying barrier of glass. She didn't even seem to notice he'd taken them. “It's easier if you close your eyes,” he said in a practical voice. To his astonishment she did, and he kissed her again.

She was no longer struggling, a mixed blessing; her squirming had provided a lovely friction for his erect penis. Then again, it wouldn't help matters if he climaxed in his breeches. Her lips had been tight, frightened, but now they had softened, and he brushed his own lips against hers, once, twice, wanting to hum with anticipatory delight.

If she accepted his kiss he'd have her, he told himself. Accepted a real kiss, his tongue in her mouth, taking her, not this innocent stuff reserved for young ladies behind the punch bowl, innocent creatures who didn't know what they wanted.

He lifted his head again. “Open your mouth for me.”

Her eyes flew open again. “Why?”

It was the first word she'd spoken in quite a while, but her voice was husky and raw as if she'd been screaming.

“Because I want to kiss you that way.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. You need to let me—”

He covered her mouth again before she could say the fateful words, and he pushed his tongue into her mouth so he could taste her fully. She froze again, but he knew how to kiss, how to use his tongue and teeth to get the response he wanted. Her body softened first, then her jaw, then her mouth, accepting him.

He took his time then. He wanted her tongue in his mouth, he wanted her to draw his in and suck on it. He demonstrated, hoping she might get the idea, letting his tongue slide against hers, teasing, dancing, sucking, but she still didn't do anything more than let him.

And he wanted more. He'd told himself that acceptance was enough, but he'd been wrong. He wanted, needed participation.

“Kiss me back,” he whispered, his own voice hoarse.

She started to shake her head, but he caught her chin in one strong hand, holding her still. “Kiss me back,” he repeated in a rough voice.

Her eyes were huge. In the darkness her rich red hair looked black, and she looked up at him
beseechingly. Don't ask me to let you go, he thought.

“I don't…know how.”

A slow smile curved his mouth as relief flooded him. “I'll show you,” he said, claiming her mouth again, trying to control the sheer ferocity of his desire for her. He kissed her slowly, much more slowly than he wanted to, but after a moment he got into the feel of it, the slow, languorous sweep of his tongue in her mouth, the soft little bites, the lift and repositioning of his mouth over hers.

The final, tentative touch of her tongue against his.

He wanted to throw back his head and laugh with triumph, but he didn't want to stop kissing her. He could feel the changes in her body, as it softened, flowed against his, and he wanted to push her against a wall, shove her robe up and take her right there.

He couldn't. He wasn't prone to kindly gestures, but her first time should be in a bed. Hell, her first time should be in her new husband's bed, but he wasn't going to give her that.

He also wasn't going to give her a baby. He would pull out, and her cousin would be able to provide the remedies most of their set used to prevent unwanted conception just in case. She would emerge from his little cave minus her innocence but not much more the worse for wear. She'd still be the same prissy old
maid, and she'd conveniently forget her night of love in the bed of London's most notorious rake.

If he ended up letting her stay that long. Virgins were tedious—they cried and then professed themselves to be in love with their heartless seducers, because God forbid they should find any sexual pleasure that didn't come with a lifelong guarantee. Charlotte already thought herself in love with him, whether she admitted it or not. And she would most certainly cry.

Twice should be enough. Once to deflower her and take the edge off his suddenly overpowering need. A second time to go slowly and explore alternatives.

He could make her come, quite easily, but that might be a mistake. She was probably better off not knowing what she was missing, since her future wasn't likely to offer many opportunities. Most men wouldn't be able to see past the glasses and the scowl, they wouldn't appreciate her creamy, gold-flecked skin and rich mouth. If she ever married it would doubtless be to some widower or elderly bachelor who knew nothing about pleasing a woman and cared less, so she'd be happier without too many fond memories. Besides, it would take a lot of work bringing a newly deflowered virgin to completion. He'd be better off moving on to the next partner, sending this one back to the city.

The others wouldn't like it. They'd want to share. Innocence was a highly prized commodity—there
was nothing the Mad Monks liked better than to open the eyes of some starry-eyed virgin. They would expect him to pass her along, to be sampled in turn by lechers and degenerates and sodomites…

No, he wasn't going to let that happen. She would be his, and his alone, and once he tired of her he'd make certain she was out of reach of his more twisted compatriots.

He thought all this as he kissed her, as his erection pulsed at the front of his breeches, as her hands, trapped between their bodies, slowly began to move, sliding up his chest to finally clutch his shoulders. He thought all this, and then he stopped thinking at all, lost in the taste of her, the feel of her, the sounds of her breath catching in her throat.

And he wanted, needed to hear the sound she made when she climaxed.

He moved her, slowly, carefully, against the door to his hidden room. He turned, leaning against it so that it opened, and he pulled her inside with him as the heavy door swung to a close with a satisfying thud.

 

Charlotte's senses were flooding her, a delicious cascade of taste and touch, of sounds and scent in the shadowy darkness. She knew she shouldn't let him, but for just this brief moment she couldn't bring herself to resist. This was Rohan, the man in her shameless dreams, the unconscionable rake who'd haunted
her waking hours as well. She'd heard the salacious stories—she knew just how depraved he was. She'd read the carefully shielded reports in the newspapers about the Villainous Viscount. His father had been just as bad—it was no wonder he was totally without conscience or decency.

He was also a master at kissing. Even with her total lack of experience she could tell that much. Adrian, Viscount Rohan, was kissing her, tall, gawky Charlotte Spenser, when there were easily a dozen beautiful women who'd doubtless warm his bed quite happily. But he had followed her, somehow divining who she was. Knowing she was plain, spinsterish Charlotte, and he'd come after
her,
and now he was kissing her with such single-minded attention that he must like it, at least a little bit.

As far as she knew, Viscount Rohan never did anything he didn't find enjoyable.

His arms were around her, holding her against him, and her knees felt weak. She wanted to sink against him, just let go and have him gather her body against his. What harm could it do?

Very real harm, she thought dazedly as he kissed the side of her mouth, slow, lingering kisses. In an other moment she'd shove him away, in another moment she'd run away, she'd find Lina, she'd…oh, God, if he'd only stop she could be strong. But as long as he held her like this she couldn't resist. She'd had
so little, and her future was so bleak. Couldn't she have this much?

She felt him shift, turning her around, felt them both move away from the moonlit sky and the cool night air. She felt dizzy, and she tentatively lifted her hands to hold on to him, afraid she might fall, as darkness closed about them and she could hear the sound of a heavy door closing, and then an odd, clicking sound penetrating the haze of longing that suffused her. Almost like the sound of a lock being set.

Alarm spread through her, and she tore her mouth away, shoving him. He released her this time, moving away in the pitch darkness, and she knew a sudden panic. She hated dark, enclosed spaces, and for the moment she felt trapped, smothered.

And then a light flared in the darkness as he lit one taper, another and another, a candelabrum bringing blessed, welcome light to the darkness, slowly illuminating every corner. Until he started in on the next branch of candles, and she could see all too clearly, and her panic was back, this time rooted in real, not imagined, danger.

It was a small room, cut into the wall of white rock that was so prevalent in the area. A fireplace at one end, with what looked like a fire laid, ready to be lit. Logs to one side, enough for a day or two, but someone like Adrian Rohan would never load his own fire.

There was a sturdy table which held the candelabrum, a bottle of wine and two glasses. A thick rug covered the floors, newer tapestries hung on the wall. Somewhere along the way she'd lost her glasses, probably when she'd fallen, but she could tell, even in the shadowy light, that they portrayed no innocent wolf hunt or Norman Conquest.

They were sexual scenes, woven into the fine threads. Someone had spent years on this blatantly erotic tapestry that now adorned the walls of Rohan's cavelike retreat.

And there was a bed. How could she have doubted otherwise? It was set up against the wall, covered with velvet bedding and a rich fur throw. A bed for indecent activities, not a bed for sleep.

He was watching her from across the small room, still and silent, yet she couldn't rid herself of the sense that he was a predator, waiting.

She turned around, looking for the door. Why hadn't she run when she had the opportunity? She'd stood a good chance of taking him by surprise when he was kissing her, and instead she'd melted like the love-addled idiot that she was, and now it was too late.

Or maybe it wasn't. She was much closer to the carved wooden door than he was, and she leaped for it, afraid he might reach it first and stop her.

He didn't move, and she told herself it was relief that flooded her when her hand found the doorknob.
He was letting her go. Until she tried to turn the knob, and it held fast. She yanked, but it was immovable.

She was locked in. With the man of her dreams, the worst libertine in all of England.

“Bloody hell,” she said weakly. And she slid to the floor, her back up against the wall, feeling like cornered prey.

 

When Lina awoke, the early-morning sun was peeping in the window. She sat up quickly, her thin silk nightgown, made for lovers rather than for a comfortable night's sleep, falling down around her shoulders. For a moment her mind was a blank, yet she was conscious of a sense of happy anticipation. It came back to her in pieces—the aborted evening at the Revels, Monty's collapse. And yet her anticipation held. She yawned, then cursed. She'd only meant to rest for an hour or so, but she must have fallen into a deep sleep, leaving Monty in the hands of his un-sympathetic vicar. It was the challenge, she realized. Monty's odious friend, the vicar, had arrived and laid down the gauntlet.

And she had snatched it up quite eagerly. Monty needed coddling, not scolding. He needed love and entertainment and distraction from his ills, not some prosy minister reading the riot act over him. She couldn't imagine why in the world Montague would invite him to stay at Hensley Court in the first place.
If he'd provided his old friend with a living, why hadn't he simply gone to the manse?

“You're awake, then,” Charlotte's maid said in a caustic tone, setting down the tea tray. “What are you doing up so early, and you not in bed till half past three?” Meggie was not looking pleased at starting her duties so early.

Lina pushed the pillows up behind her in preparation for her breakfast. “Did anyone mention that a proper lady's maid does not chastise her mistress for her sleeping habits? You're just lucky I'm alone. My bed in Grosvenor Square might be sacrosanct, but I've come to Hensley Court with the express intention of sin, and it wouldn't do for a gentleman to hear you being so pert.”

“I doubt I'd consider your sort of friends to be gentlemen,” Meggie said, unchastened. “And there's no one around here to romp with—you know you're safe as houses with Lord M. And your parson isn't going to give you a tumble. Mark my words, he's got a wife and seven children coming after him on the stage.”

“If he does it's no wonder he looks so grim,” Lina said, breaking apart a light croissant and slathering it with totally unnecessary butter. She was hungry, actually ravenous, yet she'd done nothing to work up an appetite. She finished the croissant in three greedy bites and went to work on the fresh strawberries. She would have happily done with a full
breakfast, with eggs and fat sausages and fried toast and mushrooms, when usually such heavy stuff made her faintly nauseous.