Taming an Impossible Rogue (22 page)

“Look up at me,” he ordered, and she complied, lifting her gaze again to meet his light brown eyes. “Hold your breath.”

She took a breath and held it in, sweeping her arms around his shoulders to keep him from disappearing down her body again. He nudged her knees a little farther apart with his own, then angled his hips forward. All she could feel was the hard pounding of her heart and the warm, hard slide of him entering her.

Keating paused, something she couldn’t quite interpret passing across his lean face, before he pushed deeply inside her. Sharp pain cut through her, and she clenched her jaw. A little pain in exchange for being with him. The question of whether it was worth it barely took time to form before it dissipated into a haze of sensation and heat.

“You can breathe now,” he murmured, humor in his voice.

She gasped in a breath. “Oh, my.”

He kissed her, slow and deep, at the same time pulling half out of her and then entering again. His weight across her hips, the fullness of him inside her, made her feel like lightning. The tension in her drew tighter and tighter until she thought she would break. When he slid deep inside her again, she did break, shuddering and shivering with a deep groan that shivered from her into him.

“God,” he whispered, increasing his own pace, entering her again and again. Their moans and breaths and the slap of flesh against flesh filled the room. Finally he left her to surge against her stomach, holding himself hard and close as his seed spilled warm onto her skin.

That wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to leave her like that, just at that … moment. But then she knew enough about horses and dogs to realize that in the midst of thoroughly ruining her, he’d done something noble. But then he’d said he attempted to avoid repeating his mistakes.

Breathing hard, Keating grabbed a cloth to clean them both off, then sank down alongside her. Brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes, he kissed her again. “Now we’re both in for it,” he said with a smile that made her heart twist.

That, they were.

Chapter Fourteen

Six or eight years ago, Keating had pursued any female who caught his attention—which category encompassed nearly every chit under the age of forty in London. He hadn’t cared whether they were married or not, as long as they were pretty and willing. He hadn’t wanted a romance or a marriage, or even a connection beyond the bedchamber, and he hadn’t offered any more than that, either.

He shifted a little, running his fingers along the slope of Camille Pryce’s shoulder as she lay curled up against him. Her pale hair draped across his chest, delicate and ethereal strands as striking as the long-vanished moonlight.

The rosy tinge of sunrise looked for a way past his heavy curtains, with only a sliver or two finding their way into the bedchamber. And Camille’s breath caressed warm across his skin. He drew in a slow breath of his own, wishing he’d found a way to hold back time. But he’d made that wish once before, and no one had listened to him then, either.

“Camille,” he murmured regretfully, “it’s past six o’clock.”

She stirred, stretching like a cat. His cock twitched again in reaction. “I fell asleep,” she said, lifting her head to look at his face.

“Yes, you did. I wasn’t certain whether to be insulted or flattered.” He grinned to make certain she knew he was jesting.

Her sunrise blue eyes danced. “Flattered. Definitely.” Camille sat up, arching her back and stretching her arms up over her head.

Well, he wasn’t going to ignore that. Sitting up next to her, Keating ducked his head to take her right breast into his mouth. The nipple budded beneath his tongue, and he reached up to flick his thumbnail across the other one. Her responding groan made him immediately hard.

“Oh, you—stop, please, Keating.”

With a last suck he released her. “Does that displease you?”

She scowled. “Of course it doesn’t displease me. But I have to leave, and if you continue, I won’t be able to walk.”

He leaned in again. “I’ll drive you.”

A hand across his mouth stopped his advance. “I have to leave,” she repeated, a laugh in her voice.

How odd, that he was the one cajoling his lover to stay. It was the first time he could remember being the one who wished to remain. “Very well.” Reaching over the side of the bed, he grabbed her shift and handed it to her.

She pulled the cotton material over her head, then paused, glancing at him. “Do we need to talk now?”

Keating shrugged. “Not unless you wish to. I mean, I understand that you wanted to be the woman everyone seems to think you are. I don’t expect this to have meant anything more than it was—a very, very pleasant evening spent together.”

As he spoke he studied her expression carefully, though he wasn’t certain what he was looking for, or what he hoped to see. His best interest would be served by her marrying Fenton. And by her certainly never telling his cousin that the two of them had shared a bed. For the devil’s sake, everyone knew he was a notorious rogue without feeling or sentiment. Even he knew that.

“And is this a pleasant evening you might care to repeat?” Camille asked, standing to go find her gown.

He couldn’t see her face, which might or might not have been on purpose. At the mere thought of having her again his cock rose to half staff. “Definitely. As long as it doesn’t interfere with anything.”

“And by ‘anything,’ you mean me going back to marry Fenton, I presume?”

“You don’t wish to be a ruined employee of a gentleman’s club forever, do you?”

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “You know, there are moments when you are very unlikable.”

“Yes, well, I’ve had a great deal of practice.” Sliding to the edge of the bed, he grabbed his trousers and yanked them on. “Wait here until I return. I’ll go order the coach brought ’round.”

“I can hire a hack.”

That made him scowl. “No. You can’t.”

“I don’t want—”

Stalking around in front of her, Keating grabbed both her forearms. “All I’m attempting to say is that I am doing my damnedest not to be a villain. Your path to regain your life remains, and I won’t set snares in the shrubbery.”

“That’s all I intend, as well,” she shot back at him, yanking free. “For heaven’s sake, you don’t think I’ve done something as foolish as falling for you, do I? After all the stories I’ve heard? After all the stories you’ve told me yourself? You may very nearly turn my blood to steam, but I’m not a fool. I only wanted to explore the benefits of my tattered reputation. And I—”

“Cammy.”

“And I know full well,” she pressed, “that you have ten thousand pounds wagered on my marrying your cousin.”

“It’s not a wager.”

“No? It’s a matchmaking fee, then. Call it whatever you like.” She stepped into her shoes, grabbed up her wrap, and headed for the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m expected to be at my station by seven o’clock.”

Before he could conjure a retort that wouldn’t have her kicking him in his recently exercised loins, she stalked out the door and closed it hard behind her. He stared at the heavy oak. Now that had been unexpected.

The entire evening had been unexpected, ill-advised, and very pleasurable. And apparently meant to satisfy him—and her—with no encore performances planned.
Damnation.
Because while he had been sated, that had felt more like a beginning than an end.

A sharp knock sounded at the door.
Ha.
Of course she’d returned for a second go-round. Striding forward, he pulled the door open. “I hope you—”

“You hope I what?” the Duke of Greaves asked, folding his arms over his chest.

Keen disappointment edged through him. “Nothing. What do you want?”

“No, tell me. What do you hope? That the chit you sent away had the sense to walk a block or two before she hired a hack? That she put her wrap over her head so no one would think that Greaves is bedding other men’s women?”

“Oh, shut up. I didn’t think of you at all.”

“Now that doesn’t surprise me.” Greaves regarded him. “That was Camille Pryce.”

“What were you doing, lurking in the morning room to spy on visitors? I was under the impression that you weren’t running a monastery here. Or was I mistaken?”

“I thought…” Adam scowled, closing his mouth again. “Never mind. Do what you will.”

“I always do.”

The duke turned down the hallway. “Yes, I know.”

Keating cursed. Pulling on a fresh shirt, he picked up his boots and stalked, barefoot, down the hallway toward the stairs. “What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?” he demanded, leaning over the railing to view the descending Greaves.

“Nothing. I was going to make some comment about learning lessons, but as you’re not an idiot I will simply assume that you’re proceeding in the way you are because it is your choice to do so.”

“I
have
learned my lesson, Adam,” Keating snapped, gripping his heavy boots and making a conscious decision not to throw them at Greaves’s head. “She won’t be returning. And I’m fairly assured that she’ll be marrying Fenton—who will never know about tonight, and who already assumes she was ruined long before I returned to London. So bugger off and go lecture someone else.”

Greaves reached the foyer and barely paused as Hooper pulled open the front door. “I happen to have a breakfast appointment at The Tantalus Club. Attempt to stay away from there at least until nine o’clock. After that you may cause as large a spectacle as you please.”

For the second time that morning, Keating had a door close on his face before he could conjure an adequate reply. More than likely that was because there was no reply. He’d erred, his friend knew it, and he couldn’t excuse his behavior.

Growling, he summoned Pidgeon and returned upstairs to dress. There were myriad places he could go for breakfast other than The Tantalus Club. And myriad women with whom he could spend the morning if Camille wished to be elsewhere. Half a dozen calling cards had appeared on his dressing table just since yesterday afternoon. For a moment he wished Camille had taken the time to notice them, to see that he was sought after and give him a chance to tell her that he’d abstained from chits since his return to London—with only one exception.

He picked one of the cards up. “‘Lady Georgiana Hefferton,’” he read, and tossed it into the trash receptacle on the floor. “‘Barbara Cossinglen.’” Into the trash it went, as well. “‘Eleanor, Lady Bal…’”

He trailed off, staring at the embossed calling card he gripped far too tightly in his fingers. For a moment he considered whether he might be dreaming. The last letter he’d received from Eleanor had been posted from Madrid. “Pidgeon,” he said in a low, tight voice, “fetch me Hooper.”

The valet set down the spare cravat he held and backed toward the door. “Right away, sir.”

His mind began spinning in a dozen different directions, following a dozen different scenarios that might end with Lady Balthrow’s calling card in his hand. If she’d come to London, had she brought the boy? Would Michael look like him? Had Eleanor raised him to detest his murdering father?

“Mr. Blackwood, you wanted to see me?” the butler queried from the doorway.

Keating stood, holding out the card. “Who delivered this, Hooper?” he asked. “Did a message accompany it?”

“I believe it was a footman, sir, though I didn’t recognize the livery. And no, there was no message. In fact, the fellow only said three words. ‘For Keating Blackwood.’ That was all.”

Nodding, Keating waved at him dismissively. “Thank you.”

“Sir.” Inclining his head, the butler retreated once more.

No address, no sentiment, no time or place for a rendezvous. Evidently he was only to know that Eleanor was in London, and nothing more. Either that or someone simply wanted him to believe that Lady Balthrow was nearby, but he couldn’t conjure anyone who would risk annoying him to that degree without a damned good reason.

So yes, she was somewhere in the vicinity. Which meant he might encounter her anywhere, at any time. He took a short breath. If she’d meant a genuine ambush, she wouldn’t have sent a card over first—the warning shot across his bow, as it were.

Pidgeon finished brushing out the shoulders of his coat and stepped back. “Very nice, sir,” the valet said. “It’s been a pleasure to see you dressed in fashion again.”

Keating glanced at himself in the dressing mirror. Dark blue superfine coat, light gray waistcoat, and dark gray trousers. He
did
look like a proper gentleman, however little he felt like one. “Yes, well, I couldn’t very well wear this to shear the sheep,” he said aloud.

“No, sir. Shall I have the sideboard set for your breakfast? His Grace went out to eat.”

Yes, he knew that. “No. I’ll be dining at The Tantalus Club.” Whether Greaves wanted him there this morning or not.

“Very good, Mr. Blackwood.” The valet hesitated. “If I’m not being too bold, I’m relieved to see that your megrims seem to have subsided.”

They both knew quite well that his frequent morning headaches weren’t megrims, but Keating supposed he appreciated both the intentional misnomer and that his valet had bothered to notice that he’d remained more or less sober for the past week. “So am I.”

“Perhaps the London air agrees with you.”

Perhaps something
in
London agreed with him—or so he’d nearly fooled himself into thinking. As of this morning he wasn’t so certain of the Town’s enticements. And not only because of Eleanor’s arrival. He’d seduced his share—more than his share—of females, but this was the first time in his recollection that a chit had come to find him, gotten what she wanted, and left again. Hell, she might as well have patted him on the cock and given him a shilling.

In fact, the more he considered it, the more it felt like
she’d
seduced
him.
He’d been willing, of course, whatever his gentlemanly sensibilities should have said in protest. At any rate, if Fenton ever discovered what had occurred … Keating rolled his shoulders. Camille had stomped off, and Fenton would never know who’d deflowered his bride. As she’d said, the marquis already considered her to be ruined.