Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1 (9 page)

“You are very bad, Lord Newburn.”

“Quite so,” Wesley answered and drew her farther into the shadows of the large trellis with trailing roses. He turned her around and pressed his erection against her well-curved buttocks. “The question is, are you? Do you want more?”

She leaned back against him and his hands kneaded her breasts, applying heavy pressure. From the way she arched her back, thrusting those full orbs upward, he was pretty sure that the stuffy and proper Earl of Sherrington spent little time with that particular part of her anatomy. Women were so easy. A few sweet words, a caress here and there and they fancied themselves in love. Which was just how he wanted her. A woman in love with him would relay information that he wanted and needed.

He pulled down the neckline of her gown and fondled her nipples, pinching them until she gasped slightly. Her threshold of pain was good. He liked a woman who could take it rough, although at first he would take care that he didn’t frighten her off.

“
Chéri
, you haven’t answered me.” He nipped sharply at her neck. “Do you want to become my lover?”

Delia moaned as his hand slid down to her belly and he pulled her more tightly to him.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Sherrington will sleep soundly in his chamber with all the drink he’s had. You can come to my bed later.”

“Bed?” He asked as he inched up the skirt of her gown. “How utterly conventional.” He ran his hand up her thigh above the garter. “Surely you are more adventurous than that?” He heard her quick intake of breath as he slid his palm between her legs.

“You aren’t planning to take me here, my lord?”

“Why not?”

“We could get caught.” She sounded shocked, but she didn’t pull away from him as he inserted a finger deep inside of her.

“The possibility lends to the excitement, does it not?” He inserted a second finger and got an appreciative groan from her as she arched into him again. “Society life can be so boring. I thought you were a woman who liked to take risks.”

“I do, but—”

“Shhh, then. Let’s not spoil the moment,” he said and loosened his trousers, freeing his cock. “Spread your legs,
chéri,
and hold on to the trellis.” He ruched up her skirt, exposing white buttocks. He allowed himself a moment to savor the sight. He always liked rear entry. He didn’t have to look into the woman’s face that way.

He teased her, letting his shaft slip along her outer lips and then inserting just the tip before withdrawing. How he would have loved to grind into her ass instead, but that would have to wait. Leaning over, he drove himself into her like a stallion mounting a mare. He grabbed her hips, holding them still while he plunged deeply, again and again, until she was writhing against him, with her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. He felt her climax begin and he reached up to clamp a hand over her mouth to stifle any scream and felt her body shudder. With a final thrust and a grunt, he released himself.

She sank to her knees. “I’ve never had… I mean, that was wonderful.”

Wesley lifted her and adjusted the top of her gown. “That was just the beginning,
ma belle
. You’re quite a woman.”

She smiled, obviously pleased. “And may I say that you’re quite a man?”

“
Non
. It is the woman who makes the man desire her. You drove me to heights I’ve not been before. I must have you again. Soon.”

Something lit in her eyes. “That can be arranged, my lord,” she said.

Wesley bit back a triumphant smile. Women were so easy. This one would be putty in his hands.

Ian watched Wesley the next afternoon at lunch. The mon had not put in an appearance before one o’clock, probably due to the fact that he had been out until near dawn again. Ian’s chamber was at the back of the house and his window overlooked the stables. He wasn’t sure why he kept such a watch over Wesley, but he knew he didn’t trust him.

The mon had disappeared with the Earl of Sherrington’s wife last night, he was sure of it. The woman—Delia, she had told him to call her—seemed to care not a wit for her husband, a mon whom Ian found to be less pretentious and more practical than most of the others he’d met. ’Twas an irony that Delia looked so much like Jillian with the same sunlit chestnut hair and green eyes. Aye, they were even the same height, but no two women could be more different.

Ian sensed that Jillian’s marriage had not been a happy one, but for the life of him, he couldna see her cheating on her husband, although he was sure many a mon may have tried to get her interest. Looking at her now, in her high-necked morning dress with its pearl buttons and long sleeves, she looked both innocent and irresistible. His fingers itched to slowly undo those buttons, one at a time, his mouth and lips savoring each delicate inch of skin as he exposed it. How he wanted to press his mouth to her soft, full lips where right now her pink tongue was slipping out to lick a morsel of bread crumb.

She looked up just then and caught him staring at her. Did he imagine a faint blush rising on her cheeks?

“Did you have a good time last eve?” she asked.

“I doona like crowds over much,” he answered. “A mon can’t see where danger lies.” Or draw his dagger if he needed it. Jillian had insisted he leave his claymore at home, even though he did not deem that wise.

“English Society is civilized, Highlander,” Wesley drawled from his end of the table. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of unarmed men and ladies?”

Ian clenched his fist under the table, wishing it could provide satisfying contact with Newburn’s jaw. He already disliked the mon, but someone who dallied with another mon’s wife was no more than swine.

“I’m nae sure how civilized your society is,” Ian said and held Wesley’s gaze long enough for the double message to sink in. When he saw the muscle twitch in Newburn’s jaw, he almost smiled. “There are street ruffians about, nae? Who will protect the ladies if the men are nae armed?”

“Street ruffians are not normally allowed into one’s home as a guest,” Wesley countered with a stare that made Ian sure that he meant himself. Jillian was beginning to look uneasy, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from goading the Frenchman on.

“Perhaps ye don’t go armed because ye canna protect yerself, Newburn?”

Wesley threw his napkin down like a gauntlet. “Do you want to find out?”

Ian tossed his napkin too. “I do.”

“Then let’s take it outside to the courtyard.” Wesley stood. “Swords?”

Ian rose as well. “Swords it is.”

“Swords it is
not
,” Jillian said in a tone that brooked no reply. Both men turned to stare at her.

“You, Lord Cantford, have a dance lesson this afternoon.”

He looked at her as though she’d lost her wits. “Lass, a dance lesson can wait.”

“It cannot. I have arranged for private lessons with Miss Berry and her students. I will not keep her waiting.” She turned to Wesley. “And you, Lord Newburn, have an appointment with Lord Liverpool. Or have you forgotten? I’m sure the Prince of Wales doesn’t want his prime minister to be kept waiting either.”

The men glared at each other.

“Tomorrow then,” Ian growled. “As soon as you can get out of bed.”

“Tomorrow,” Wesley said stiffly. “And be prepared.”

Both men were behaving like small boys, Jillian reflected as she led Ian into the dance studio later that afternoon. She’d already sent a messenger to request Pierre Grenier’s presence at their match in the morning, lest one of them get too serious and actually draw blood or worse.

She looked up at Ian now. He was dressed properly like a gentleman, complete with frock coat, waistcoat and cravat, much to his muttered disgust. Even though she knew Jones had shaved him this morning, the dark shadow of a beard and his flowing raven hair gave him a roguish appearance. She could almost see him in a tricorn hat and the long, black cloak of a highwayman.

The interior of Miss Berry’s dance studio was cool and devoid of any furniture other than the chairs where three musicians sat and a long wooden
barre
along one wall. The wooden floor was waxed to a reflective gleam and in the center three young girls and boys waited along with the dance teacher.

Ian stopped mid-step. “’Tis only children here. What kind of sport are ye having with me?”

“They’re nearly Mari’s age, Lord Cantford, preparing for their first invitations into Society. Just follow the instructions and their lead and you’ll do fine.”

He gave her an indignant look as he went to take his place in the square of dancers. Jillian moved toward the
barre
to be out of the way.

“Why are you over there, Lady Newburn?” Miss Berry asked.

She halted and turned around. “To be out of the way. The quadrille becomes quite lively at times.”

“It does,” the teacher agreed, “which is why I instruct from the center. Kindly step up to your partner.”

“Oh, I don’t dance,” Jillian answered. Rufus had had a bad leg and he didn’t allow her to dance with anyone else.

Miss Berry tapped her timing stick to the floor. “Then you will learn along with Lord Cantford. He needs a partner.”

“Aye,” Ian said with pure mischief in his voice. “Ye do want me to learn, nae?”

One of the girls giggled. Miss Berry turned a fierce eye on her. “None of that.”

“But he talks funny!” the girl said in protest.

Miss Berry’s stick tapped the floor once more. “Miss Marjorie, will I have to speak to your mother about your rudeness?”

The girl sobered. “No, ma’am.” She curtsied to Ian. “My apologies, my lord.”

“Well, then,” Miss Berry said as Jillian reluctantly took a position next to Ian, “we are ready to begin. Miss Marjorie, you and your partner will kindly walk the steps of the first figure so that Lord Cantford can observe.”

The boy bowed to the girl from his position in the corner of the square and lifted her hand. Marjorie took four slow, gliding steps to turn partially to face him.

“It doona look hard,” Ian whispered and held out his hand.

“Just wait,” Jillian whispered back as she placed her fingers in his large palm, remembering only too late that she had removed her gloves when she came inside.

A corner of his mouth lifted slightly as he managed to caress her fingertips with the pad of his thumb. “I may like this dance, after all.”

Miss Berry tapped her stick. “No talking, please.”

Jillian smiled as she turned and was picked up by the boy who had moved away from Marjorie and now courtesy-turned her to face the center. They proceeded around the square in a stately fashion.

“Kindly demonstrate the second theme to this first figure,” Miss Berry instructed Marjorie again when they were back in their original positions.

“Now, we will set this to music,” Miss Berry said and nodded to the musicians. “
La Pantalon
, if you please.”

The music lifted the beat and the dancers moved in measured steps. Each time Ian partnered with Jillian, he made sure to stroke her hand seductively until, if she were going to be honest with herself, she looked forward to finding out what he’d try next. Circling her palm lightly or brushing her bare wrist was certainly safe in the middle of a group of students. He wouldn’t take liberties beyond that.

But when it came time to hold hands during the second figure, she wasn’t so sure. How could anyone manage to so sensually massage her hand while moving and bobbing about? She truly hoped none of the young dancers realized what was going on. If Miss Berry did, she said nothing.

But when the dance instructor called for more difficult moves such as a small
jeté
and some slow, rather deep
pliés
, Jillian wasn’t so sure that Miss Berry didn’t have a sadistic streak in her. Even Ian had a light sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“By the auld gods,” he said after they had completed all five figures of the quadrille, “why does there need to be so much leaping about? And why does a mon have to do it wearing all these clothes?”

Muscles clenched deep inside her belly and her nipples pebbled at the sudden image of Ian
leaping about
without his clothes. She’d already seen the hard, corded muscles of his thighs…
Good Lord. What am I thinking
? But she couldn’t get the idea out of her head of what he would look like without his shirt, with that broad chest and strong arms bare…

Ian was watching her with a strange expression on his face that was turning rapidly to one of intimate awareness of her thoughts.

“It be a good thing ye doona play poker, lass.”

She felt her cheeks grow warm.
Drat
. Better to change the subject.

“Which parts of the dance did you find difficult, my lord?”

“The ones where I was separated from you,” he said promptly.

“Lord Cantford. Please be serious.” She hoped her blush wasn’t increasing.

“I am.” His dark eyes penetrated hers and she saw a look of raw desire in them before they began to twinkle with mirth. “After all, ye are the only one tall enough for me not to get an ache in my back.” He made a show of stooping over. “I canna see the urchins unless I do this.”