Taming an Impossible Rogue (21 page)

Another coach rattled by and she turned away, pretending to inspect a half-wilted rose dipping over someone’s wall. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Under the best of circumstances she didn’t want anyone—strangers or former friends—to see her where she couldn’t swiftly vanish. And these were not the best of circumstances.

The coach that had passed her stopped, then made a wide turn to head back toward her again.
Oh, blast it.
Gathering her wrap more tightly around her, Camille stepped quickly back in the direction of Regent Street and The Tantalus Club drive.

When it drew even with her, the coach slowed to match her pace. She refused to look over, even at the sound of the door opening. Instead she sped her steps, sending up a prayer that she hadn’t just made her worst and last mistake.

“Camille?”

The low drawl made her heart lurch in sudden relief, and she nearly stumbled. Stopping, she faced the large black vehicle. “Keating? What are you—”

He stepped out, grabbed her forearm, and half dragged her back inside with him. At some unseen signal the coach rumbled into motion again. “What the devil are you doing out on the streets at this hour?” he demanded. “It’s dangerous.”

She sank back onto the seat opposite him, far more relieved than she likely had a right to be. “What are
you
doing out here?”

“I asked first. Out with it.”

“Very well.” She swallowed. “I was contemplating paying you a visit.” His light brown eyes, black in the dimness of the carriage, seemed to widen a touch. “Are you shocked?”

“‘Contemplating,’ were you?” he repeated, leaning forward and lowering the wrap from around her ears. “You do that quite actively.”

“I don’t know quite how I ended up in that location. It … happened.”

“And what would you have done next, in this contemplation of yours?”

“I think I might have hired a hack to take me to Baswich House. You said you were staying there, with the Duke of Greaves.”

“I am, indeed.” He tilted his head as if studying her, though she had no idea how much he thought he could see in the dark. “And once you reached Baswich House?”

Camille frowned. “I don’t know. The butler would be asleep, I presume, and I certainly had no intention of sneaking in and peering into bedchambers until I found you. Heavens, what if I stumbled across the duke? That would have been—”

“Unacceptable,” Keating interrupted, his voice unexpectedly harsh. “It would have been unacceptable.”

“I was going to say that it would have been embarrassing, but as you will.” She wrinkled her nose. “You smell of cigars.”

“I was at the Society Club,” he returned.

“That’s nowhere near here.”

“Isn’t it? My driver must have become lost.”

A smile touched her mouth. “You came by The Tantalus Club on purpose. Did you wish to see me?”

“Yes. But then I realized you would be to bed.” He shifted a little. “I should return you there.”

She heard the hesitation in his voice, and she knew immediately what it meant. He wanted her to stay. With him. It was an unexpectedly heady feeling, to be wanted. Desired. And considering how carnal her thoughts had been, it was also something of a relief. She doubted there could be anything worse than desiring someone who didn’t want anything to do with you. “Now that I know your ruse, are you going to stop sending me birthday flowers every day?” she asked, even though that wasn’t the question on her lips.

“I think I can manage five more bouquets, unless you wish me to stop.”

Camille shook her head. “I don’t. I like receiving flowers, even if you lied to me about sending them.”

“I told you, I didn’t lie. I skillfully evaded the question. And if Fenton hadn’t been so shockingly obtuse, you never would have been the wiser.”

“So you say. Don’t you think it would have hurt matters if the flowers were what swayed me, and I found out at the very last moment that he never sent them?”

He scowled. “Stop being such a clever chit. It’ll do you no good.”

“Won’t it?”

“No. It’s far better to be mercenary than clever. Act for your own preservation rather than wasting your time deciphering everyone else’s motivations.”

She sighed, wishing she could simply sit and chat with him forever. Well, not just chat, but be there alone with him. The coach could go round and round London, stopping only for someone to fetch them some tea. “You sound so very cyni—”

He leaned forward, capturing her mouth with his. “I’m attempting to become a better man, you know,” he muttered, yanking her forward across his thighs.

Heat spread through her like lightning. “That’s very obvious to me,” she said unsteadily, and tangled her fingers into his hair, drawing his face down to hers for another heady kiss.

“I swore I’d never step between a husband and his wife again. Ever.” Warm fingers slid up from her hips, brushing the outside of her breasts and pulling her against his hard chest.

“You aren’t.”

“You’re betrothed to my damned cousin, Cammy. And he still wishes to marry you. And marrying him would be better for you than anything else I can imagine.”

“Better for me how?” she retorted, pulling and pushing at him, wanting to be even closer. Their stupid, stupid clothes were in the way, chafing and far too hot.

“For your life. You’ll have back your family and your friends, pretty gowns and soirees.”

“Then convince me tomorrow.”

Keating pushed her back a few inches, his tawny gaze full of secrets and wishes and other things that she badly wanted to discover. “Tomorrow,” he whispered.

Camille nodded. “Now stop talking, before I lose my nerve.” The coach bumped over something, and she dipped an eyebrow. “Where are we going, anyway?”

“Baswich House.”

“You told the driver that before I ever climbed in here.”

He claimed her mouth again, his fingers slipping beneath the shoulders of her gown. “Yes, I did. I said I’m trying to be a better man. I didn’t say I was succeeding. And I want you. I have wanted you from the moment I set eyes on you and that buffoon who was insulting you.”

So when he’d claimed he was only after friendship, he’d lied. Or very skillfully evaded, at the least. At the same time, he was certainly not some random gentleman who behaved himself in public and then insulted and belittled her whenever he could get away with it. His warm palm closed over her right breast, and she gasped, pushing into the embrace. “We’re also friends, are we not?” she managed unsteadily.

“You need better friends than me.”

“No I don’t.”

By the time the coach stopped, her lips felt swollen, her dress too tight and scratchy across her breasts, and her heart as though it would rattle straight out of her chest. Keating handed her down from the carriage, then stepped to the ground behind her and tugged her back against his front. “You will stay right here,” he murmured in her ear, shifting his hips so she could feel the hard bulge of his trousers pressing against her backside.

Wordlessly she nodded. Keen arousal sped through her, and it took more willpower than she expected to not turn around and throw her arms around his neck for more kissing. As a nearly attached duo they climbed the trio of front steps. A stern, sleepy-looking fellow in trousers and a nightshirt opened the door for them as they reached it, then stepped silently out of the way.

Keating nudged her in the direction of the stairs, staying close behind her as they ascended to the first floor and then down the hallway to the west wing of the large, dark house. At the far end he reached around her to push open a door. “This way,” he murmured, following her inside.

At the sound of the door locking, Camille turned around and kissed Keating again, sliding along his hard, lean body. In the back of her mind she knew she should be wary or worried—or one of those emotions she generally felt when she’d stepped away from her secure little haven—but mostly she felt intoxicated. Heady and excited and shivery.

“You are wearing too many clothes,” Keating said softly, and her heart pounded at the edge of unsteadiness in his deep voice.

Good heavens, he intoxicated her. “So are you,” she returned, pushing the coat off his shoulders. “Tell me again that you want me.”

With a slight smile he bent, lifting her in his arms and carrying her over to his large bed. It had already been made down for the evening, and she sank into the soft pillows and sheets. Oh, she’d forgotten what it was like to have such a fine, soft bed.

“I want you,” he said, taking one ankle to pull off her shoe, then doing the same with the other. “You’ve been driving me absolutely mad with desire for over a fortnight, and I don’t know that I’ve ever wanted anyone as much as I want you at this moment.” Keeping hold of her left ankle, he slowly brushed the palm of his free hand up her calf to her knee and up her thigh, drawing the heavy material of her skirt with him.

Oh, this was utter madness, and she was so thankful she’d had the courage to venture away from The Tantalus Club, at least for one night. To be wanted … for anything, felt significant, especially from someone she had come to value as a friend. Especially one who had been with enough women to know what he wanted. And to be desired by the man whom she lusted after in return … She’d heard enough talk at the club to know that that was a fairly uncommon occurrence.

Keating shifted to sit on the bed beside her. His gaze on her face, he brushed his fingers into her hair, pulling out pins and setting them carefully onto his bedstand. As her light-colored hair fell past her shoulders, he spent a long, breathless moment twining the strands around his fingers. “Lovely,” he whispered, almost soundlessly.

“Thank you,” she returned in the same tone. “So are you.”

“And so polite.” With a half grin he undid the buttons of his waistcoat and then dropped the thing to the floor. A moment later he pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it aside, as well. “But you’re being quiet,” he observed, placing a hand on either side of her shoulders and leaning in to kiss her again. “Have you changed your mind after all?”

“No. Of course not. I’m absorbing and observing.”

“Well, we’ll have to take care of that then, won’t we?”

“What do you—”

He shifted his attention to her jaw, nipping and kissing, the sensation so pleasurable it almost hurt. When she couldn’t help moaning, Keating took a deep breath and made his way down her throat and over to her collarbone. Slowly he slipped his fingers beneath the shoulders of her gown and drew the material down her arms, kissing every bit of her skin that he exposed. When his mouth closed over a bare breast, she gasped again.

Oh, he was right about one thing: it was difficult to be an observer when every touch seemed to flood her with sensation. Her mind simply wanted to enjoy the moment, and her body already was. With an excited grin, Camille put her hands on his shoulders and ran her palms down his bare chest. His skin was like velvet just covering iron. Muscles flexed beneath her touch, and she couldn’t hide her satisfaction. Being wicked definitely had its merits.

“What’s so amusing?” he murmured, glancing up at her before moving his very capable mouth to her other breast and licking across her nipple.

“Good heavens,” she rasped, arching her back. “It’s not amusing; it’s … splendid.”

“That it is. And that you are.”

She squirmed beneath his ministrations, almost wishing they’d remained in the coach so that at least he would have had to get on with it. Because as much as she was enjoying his hands and his mouth on her, she was very aware of the taut bulge in his trousers. And she was aware that kissing and his … oh, his mouth on her breasts was not all she wanted from him.

Keating, however, seemed to enjoy torturing her with his exquisite tongue, removing her gown as slowly as anyone could possibly manage and making her shiver in the most delicious way possible. Heat spread from everywhere he touched, until she thought she must burst into flames. “I have to be … back at … oh, at the club by seven o’clock,” she said shakily.

“I don’t think I’ll be finished with you by then.”

“Not at this rate.”

His low laugh echoed through her breastbone. “Impatient, my dear?”

She couldn’t help smiling breathlessly at his amusement. “I didn’t come looking for you to have a chat.”

Hauling her up by her hips, he stripped her gown and chemise down her thighs and off. “So anxious to be ruined, are you?”

“Everyone believes I already am ruined. I decided I might as well enjoy myself, then.”

“With me.” His palms slid up her thighs again, dipping inward as they climbed.

“Yes. With you.”

Keating parted her legs, trailing his mouth down her belly, around the most impatient part of her, inside her thighs, and then … there. The sensation sent her floating skyward, shivery and gasping for breath.

“Oh, my word.”

Never had she expected anything to feel so naughty and intimate and very, very good all at the same time. Arching her back, Camille dug her fingers into the bedsheets and moaned. Yes, he was still teasing at her, but she was closer to where she wanted to be now, closer to him. And the tightness running through her abdomen, stretching at her muscles, demanding a release—shifting her grip, she dug her fingers into his hair again and pulled his face up to hers.

“I want you,” she whispered tightly. “Now.”

From his expression he was still enjoying his ministrations. And that would kill her. She reached down between them and took gentle hold of the tented crotch of his trousers. He hissed in a breath through his teeth, jumping. “Stop that, or you’ll finish me off,” he growled.

“That is how
I
feel.”

Tilting his head to gaze at her for a hard half-dozen heartbeats, he sank down along her body and kissed her again. “There is some pain involved. I want you to feel pleasure, first.”

“I feel pleasure just being with you. And pain—I can manage a bit of pain. Be with me.”

He lifted his hips, unfastening his trousers and shoving them down past his thighs. “You say some very nice things, Camille. Last chance to come to your senses.”

“I
did
come to my senses. That’s why I’m here.” She lifted her head, angling her neck so she could get a look at the impressive erection jutting toward her. For the first time uneasiness touched her, but she banished it. Tonight she would not be afraid. Not with Keating.