Rules of Engagement (23 page)

When Kerrich had finished the tale, the old man pursed his lips. "I never knew Lewis had it in him."

Leaning back in his chair, Kerrich said, "Neither did I, but he's having an affair with some great lady, he's in love with Miss Fotherby, and he's involved in stealing from the Mathewes Bank and the Bank of England."

"Busy boy," Grandpapa commented. "But I don't care. I've known that lad since he was in nappies, and Lewis's mind isn't convoluted enough to think up such an intricate plot to counterfeit money."

"No, my lord," Moulton said. "We know he is working for someone, but we cannot find out who."

"I knew the boy was in trouble, but I had no idea how much." He turned to Moulton. "Is he going to hang?"

Moulton looked grim and nodded. "The best he could hope for is transport."

"Damn. I hate to see that happen. He's my sister's grandson." Lord Reynard sipped his whisky. "But you have to catch him first. Do you know how you're going to do it?"

"No, sir," Moulton said.

Lord Reynard put his glass down with a snap. "Then I'll tell you."

Although the maids didn't really need any supervision. Today, with no struggle, Beth had taken a bath. Her white, ruffled gown with the blue velvet sash was laid out. So many cheerful, helpful maids were crowded into the bedchamber, Pamela didn't have a place to sit, but still… she wanted to be there for little Beth. The sweet child needed her for reassurance.

Going to Beth, she knelt beside her. "Darling, Lord Kerrich demands to see me."

"All right," Beth said brightly as she turned her head to let Corliss take another rag curler out of her hair.

"But I won't go if you want me to stay here with you."

Beth nodded and watched her hair bounce in the mirror. "You can go."

"Your happiness is more important to me than Lord Kerrich's summons."

"I'm happy. Go ahead." Touching the newly formed curls, Beth asked, "Corliss, I want these forever."

The maids laughed indulgently, and Corliss said, "Really, Miss Lockhart, there's no need for you to stay. When it's time to go, we'll have Beth ready to meet Her Majesty, and you know you can't refuse the master."

For one brief moment, Pamela was horrified. Did everyone know she couldn't refuse Kerrich?

Then she realized Corliss meant she couldn't refuse the master's
summons.
"No, I suppose I can't." Reluctantly, she stood up, edged toward the door and out into the corridor.

Moulton spoke quietly from the shadows. "Miss Lockhart, this way."

Startled, she caught her breath.

"Beg pardon, miss. Lord Kerrich has instructed that I bring you to him." He led her down the long corridor with its blaze of candles and on every table a vase of roses. Then they walked into the gallery, their heels clicking on the polished hardwood floor. They passed open guest bedchambers rich with color and fabric, through a game room with a billiards table, and at last they turned into the other wing. The family wing, with the family bedchambers.

Pamela's cheeks burned. Kerrich didn't mean for her to come to his bedchamber… did he? Just because she had given him an inappropriate invitation yesterday, and just because his grandfather had been in the library, and just because she and Kerrich had been left frustrated—that was no reason for Kerrich to think he could call for her any time he wanted a romp. Hadn't she been humiliated enough in front of Lord Reynard?

Moulton stopped before the double doors that led to the master suite and flung them open. Stepping back, he bowed.

Cheeks burning, lips pressed together, fingers knotted, Pamela looked at him.

In a rush, Moulton said, "No, miss! It's not like that. Please, no one but me knows where you are and I wouldn't… I am the soul of discretion."

There could be no doubt. He
was
the soul of discretion, or word of her downfall would be all over London by now. Still she hesitated until Kerrich stepped into the doorway. He hadn't changed yet; he wore a plain white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and trousers with no boots, and he sported an impish grin.

"Come in." He gestured. "We haven't much time."

The words were ominous. His expression was not.

"Stop glaring," he said. "I have a surprise for you."

Although still disinclined and braced for a fight, she tentatively entered the chamber.

"Not the kind of surprise you're obviously imagining." Circling her, he stepped behind and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Miss Lockhart, you should do something about that salacious turn of mind."

He sounded so happy, and she wished she were anywhere but here. For she struggled with the strong suspicion Kerrich thought that she was also attending the party.

A suspicion that immediately proved correct. "I had hoped to catch you before you started to get ready."

Moulton shut the door behind her, sealing her into the richly decorated room with Kerrich. A fire burned on the hearth, candles were lit everywhere, and a vase of roses bloomed on a table placed beside a comfortable armchair. She looked longingly back at the entrance.

"I have something for you." Taking her hand, Kerrich kissed it lingeringly, then pulled her toward his bed. The massively carved and ancient monster was swathed with bed curtains of rich blue-purple and accents of scarlet and gold.

There, on the coverlet, lay a gown. A beautiful gown. A proper gown. A perfect gown of gleaming gray taffeta, with black net over rose taffeta decorating the modest neckline. The sleeves were flared, the cuffs decorated with the same net and rose taffeta, and around the hem of the full skirt wound another stripe of rose and net. If she'd been offered her choice of gowns to wear to the queen's reception, this was the one she would have picked—and her heart sank.

"This one was my favorite," he said, "but I had Madame Beauchard deliver several."

Delicate lady's unmentionables in her size were stacked beside the gown. A lacy chemise and matching pantalettes. A corset of the finest silk. Crisp petticoats. Thin stockings and, on the floor, gray slippers.

He had thought of everything.

It would have been so much better if Kerrich hadn't laid eyes on her until she kissed Beth good-bye and it was too late for a confrontation. Then she wouldn't have to try and make excuses, and she could at least put off her explanations. So she stared at the exquisite thing and said, "It's lovely, but—"

He held up his hand. "I know what you're going to say. You can't accept a gift like this from a man. Not even from me. But you can, you see. I'm taking the cost out of your wages."

She wheeled on him. "What?"

"Now
you're looking at me." With the ball of his thumb, he brushed her lower lip. His lips quirked, and he looked unbearably pleased with himself. "Let me give you this. It would make me very happy and, if you wish, you may consider it a bonus toward the success of our project."

She hated to wipe that expression off his face. She really hated to, but when she thought of going to Buckingham Palace, her fright rose up and almost overwhelmed her. "Thank you, but"—she swallowed—"where would I wear it?"

For a long moment, he stood immobile. His gaze swept her, noting her complete lack of preparation, and she could see his mind working, calculating, and coming up with the right answer.

His eyebrows tilted devilishly. "Did I say you could wear a different gown?" he asked. "I've changed my mind. You will wear this gown, and you will wear it to Her Majesty's reception this very afternoon."

She hated this dread that stole her breath and turned her hands cold. "I can't."

She would have explained further, but he smiled and stepped closer, crowding her against the bed. "Beloved, there is nothing you can't do." He removed the knitting needles from her chignon. He touched her collar, and it fell to the ground. He had Pamela's buttons undone and her corset loosened before she thought it possible, and her petticoats fell in a froth around her feet.

Of course. He was stripping her. No doubt he planned to stuff her into the gown and drag her to the queen's reception.

"I can't go, I wasn't included on the invitation, and one doesn't drop in unannounced on the queen."

"You are not unannounced." With a yank, he peeled everything down, leaving her clad in her chemise and stockings.

The man could give lessons on how to undress a woman. Would-be rakes would line up for miles.

"When I responded to Her Majesty, I responded for Grandpapa and you. Grandpapa, because he is my house-guest and one of her favorite friends, and she is very loyal to her friends. You, because you are Beth's governess and no one, not even Victoria herself, expects me to handle a girl-child on my own." He smiled into her eyes.

She saw the steel behind that pleasantry. "It's not so easy. I've met Her Majesty." Pamela walked a delicate line. She didn't want him to remember, yet she wanted him to understand. To let her off. "Years ago when she was a child."

"Really." He stripped the coverlet off his bed, and laid it, and the gown and its accoutrements, flat on the floor. "I wish I had known that. I would have mentioned it in my note to Queen Victoria."

"No!" In a turmoil, she watched him throw the blankets back and bare the sheets.

"But you have told me so little of your past, you are almost a stranger to me in almost every way that matters." Placing his hands on her waist, he hoisted her up onto the mattress. "Yet we communicate in one way very well. Shall I remind you?"

With a shock, she realized she had been foolish. Kerrich hadn't been stripping her to force her into that gown. He had been stripping her to… to… "You can't do this!" she protested.

"Yes." Grabbing the waist of her pantalettes, he pulled them down and sent her tumbling backward. "I can. You used me to rectify the wrongs done to you. Now I'll use you to cure my frustration, and this, at least, is fair."

Clawing at the sheets, she tried to right herself. "No, it's not!"

"You were revenging yourself on other men. On boors who treated you badly." He spread her legs. "My frustration is with
you."

"No. We don't have time. No. Kerrich, no."

He mounted the bed and grabbed her flailing wrists, and imitated her protests. "Yes. Yes. Pamela, yes."

Her heartbeat picked up when he placed both hands over her head and held them there.

"You are the most recalcitrant woman I have ever met."

He pushed her chemise up around her neck. "I do something so thoughtful it amazes even me. Something which would send every other woman of my acquaintance into paroxysms of ecstasy." Still kneeling between her legs, he looked her over.

All over. The breasts, the waist, the patch of dark hair between her legs. With a dip of his head, he took her nipple into his mouth and suckled, then licked it repeatedly until she squirmed against the sheets. She ought to kick him. She ought to… She lifted her foot.

"Don't even consider it," he said. "You owe me a cure for my frustration."

"I don't owe—"

He bit her nipple. Not hard, but enough to bring her arching off the mattress.

He stripped off his pants with one hand. "I was afraid you would object to the fact I'd bought you a gown. Can you believe that? I imagined you would be so conventional as to worry about the propriety of a man buying something as personal as clothing for a woman not his wife. But no. Not you. You have to be different."

In desperation, she said, "This isn't nice."

"It certainly isn't." His long finger slid smoothly inside of her. "That's why it excites you."

"No." She writhed, extracting the sensation of his hand against her. "It shouldn't." What kind of woman was she, to be aroused by the scent of Kerrich, the warmth of him above her, his grip on her wrists and the threat of his possession? Aroused when she should be indignant at being exploited and handled and overcome.

"Try to be honest about one thing, at least." He kissed her neck. He nipped at her ear, then ran his tongue slowly around the rim. "Tell me you want this."

From somewhere, she managed to summon enough pride to say, "No."

Sitting back, he smiled at her, that wicked, luscious mouth mocking her feeble denial. "When I'm inside you, I'm going to get all the way in, right to the mouth of your womb"—his finger stroked up, not far enough, but up— "and you're going to want me so much you'll wrap your legs around my hips and lift yourself to me. I'm going to move in and out slowly"—he imitated his threat—"then faster, and all the time you're going to be just on the verge of climax. You'll beg me. Can't you imagine your own voice crying out, saying, "Please, Devon, please," and it'll be better than this because it'll be my cock, stretching you wider and longer, pushing you as far as you can—"

"Please, Devon."

He chuckled, damn him. He chuckled.

But hastily he shifted, positioned himself at the entrance of her body, and just as he promised, languidly entered her.

Heaven. It was heaven. It was so good. She gasped, trying to get enough air, trying to fill her lungs so she could scream with… with pleasure so acute it was almost pain.

"You're still new." He spoke right in her ear. "You're still so tight. I have to move slowly so it doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt, does it?"

He knew it didn't. He challenged her with his tone. When he released her hands, she was going to show him… his pelvis rested right on hers, and the heat of him warmed her all the way through. Her legs moved restlessly, her feet stroking the sheet. The rocking motion pressed him against her again, and again, still at his own leisurely pace.

She whimpered and tried to make him hurry, but he wouldn't. The muscles inside her quivered with each stroke. They wanted to spasm. She wanted… devil take him, if he would just bestir himself instead of keeping to this deliberate rhythm, she could finish this.

Then she remembered how he'd predicted she would wrap her legs around his hips. Wanton. Opening herself to him like that. She wasn't giving herself today. He was taking her.

But he wasn't doing it right. She lifted her hips, trying to find that perfect snippet of passion that would bring her to climax.