The Courtesan's Daughter (31 page)

“Caro, it is you who are irresistible.”

“Yes,” she said flatly. “Naturally. But you
do
find her beautiful, don’t you? Charming? Amusing? Seductive?”

“No, I do not,” he said in typical fashion, that is to say
grimly
.

“Don’t be tedious. Of course you do,” she said, suddenly sick of the whole conversation. Did it matter what Westlin had hoped for with Sophia? How could it matter now? She was married to Ashdon and her mother had not taken Ashdon for a diversion, no matter how Westlin had arranged things.

Caro was suddenly caught out of her thoughts and into Ashdon’s arms. His mouth was upon hers before she had a chance to insist that he stop. And she would have insisted, she was quite certain of that. His kiss was blistering, angry, and invasive, as if he meant to stop her from speaking ever again, as if he meant to drive all thoughts and all objections and all conjectures from her mind and heart, as if he meant to possess her utterly.

Which, of course, he already did. They were married, weren’t they? They were married, and there was nothing to be done about it.

As Ashdon’s hands ran up her ribs to her breasts, and as her nipples ached deliciously in response, and as she moaned when the blunted thrust of his desire met the soft ache of her own desire, she thought that perhaps there was one thing to be done about it. They could and perhaps
should
consummate their marriage.

Immediately, if not sooner.

Ashdon, it became obvious, had the same idea.

He pulled back to look into her eyes, his mouth just an inch above her own.

“You said you wanted me,” he whispered. “I won’t ask if you still do. I don’t dare. But know that I want you. And I mean to have you.”

She would never know if he had been offering her a moment to refuse, to turn the situation along a different course, because before she quite knew what she was doing, her hands were on the back on his neck, tangled in his hair, and she was pulling his mouth down to hers again. He complied, quite willingly it seemed.

And that was the very last coherent thought she had for quite some time.

Ash leaned back against the closed door to the yellow salon, taking her with him, sheltered in his arms, devoured by his kiss. He kissed her hungrily, deeply, as if searching for something he had just discovered was lost to him, something precious, something rare. She responded with her own hunger, her own need, finding the answer to her hunger in his mouth.

It was savage. It was wonderful.

He lifted her skirts, inching them up in his hand, crushing them in his fist, running his fingertips over the length of her stocking, past her knee, to the trembling flesh of her thigh. She burned. She shivered.

He did not care. He did not stop.

That was wonderful, too.

Dimly, she could hear the voices in the room beyond; the deep modulated tones of Calbourne, the sharp lilt of Sophia, the quiet good humor of Anne. Dimly, she was shocked. They were just beyond the door. A footmen could enter the room at any time from the two other doors to the dining room. Two doors! It was scandalous, unsafe, unsound to tumble against the walls and furniture with Ash. Anyone might interrupt them.

No one could interrupt them. Not at this. Not anymore.

His hand was on her thigh, his mouth on her throat, moving down in gentle bites and nibbles to her chest, to the lift of her bosom, to her nipple. He bit her through the muslin and she jerked against him, moaning.

“Sshhhh,” he breathed, lifting his head to bury his mouth along the nape of her neck, biting her, kissing her, his tongue trailing a line along her neck to her throat to the tip of her chin.

Lifting her up, he turned her so that she was pressed against the bumps and ridges of the paneled door, as he was pressed against her. One arm wrapped around her waist while the other slid its way up her thigh to the swollen, aching juncture that throbbed for him. He touched her, a single feathered touch, and she banged her heels against the door and groaned.

“Sshhhh,” he whispered as he slid his finger into her effortlessly. She was wet. He liked that. She could tell.

Her narrow skirt and chemise were bunched around her hips as he held her up, her head just above his own. She ran her hands into his hair and down to his shoulders and back, caressing him, learning his shape, the feel of him, the clean scent of him. She was poised above him, open and wide and helpless.

His hand moved down to his hips and when he was finished there, he cupped her, fondling, caressing. And then he pierced her.

She felt a pop, and then a burning sensation, and then all she felt was Ash. She groaned and bit her lip. He withdrew and then plunged in again, hard. Her head banged against the door. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms about his neck, and gave herself into his care.

He did not disappoint. He drove into her again and again, murmuring her name, kissing her mouth, her throat, her shoulder. He pulled off the fichu that had decorated her gown so that he could taste her flesh. He moaned and drove hard into her. She was pinned against the door, helpless to avoid his driving need, feeling the build of tension, the answering need to thrust toward him, the hunger in her very blood for his touch, his mouth.

His hand slipped down between them, fondling her on that tiny bud of sensation, and when the tide took her and threw her down, when she grimaced and grunted her way to the place where Ashdon took her, it was his voice that guided her back.

Panting, her head tilted back against the door with a gentle bump. Exhausted and just a bit frightened, her legs wilted from around his back and collapsed against the door. He lifted her, freeing her, and set her on her feet, her skirts falling back to the floor as they had been just moments before. Except for her missing fichu and the wild manner of her breathing, she was certain she looked exactly as she had just minutes before.

Except, of course, that she could not stand and fell in a graceless lump at Ashdon’s feet. Ashdon, the lout, grinned down at her while he fastened his breeches.

“I’m flattered,” he said, reaching out a hand to her.

“Don’t be,” she said, taking his hand as he helped her to her feet. “I didn’t eat enough breakfast, that’s all. If you are going to prop me up against a door anytime you choose, particularly in the middle of meals, then you must be prepared for the unavoidable consequences.”

“Such as you falling at my feet?” he said politely. “I rather like those consequences, Caro.”

“You would,” she snapped, checking her hair for damage. It felt extremely damaged.

“Have I abused you greatly?” he said softly, looking not at all repentant. “I do apologize. I shall try not to make it a habit to take you against every door in every house we inhabit. But I shall not be rash enough to make any promises to that effect. You, my dear wife, are irresistible.”

It suddenly didn’t matter quite so much what her hair looked like.

“Do you really think so?” she asked, hating the needy sound of the question but helpless to stop herself.

“Hasn’t it just been demonstrated?” he responded. “I certainly did not expect to deflower my wife in the dining room merely an hour after the wedding.”

“Perhaps you lack discretion and self-control.”

“I’ve never lacked for them before.”

Caro raised an eyebrow and pierced him with her gaze. Yes, pierced. It seemed appropriate.

“I’ve explained to you about the gambling,” he said, fussing with his cravat, which had looked perfectly acceptable until he had started fussing with it.

“Perhaps you should explain it again.”

Caro sat down at the dining room table, as did Ashdon. They acted as if nothing had happened, though she was sore between her legs and missing her fichu and Ashdon’s cravat was a mess.

“Now that I have you irrevocably, perhaps I shall,” he said.

Irrevocably
. It sounded high-handed and completely barbaric. She rather liked it.

“I’ll go over it rather quickly, shall I?” he said. “As we have agreed that I’m lacking in self-control and discretion where you are concerned, I find myself looking at the other doors and even the windows of this room speculatively. I don’t know how much longer I can keep myself in check. Perhaps you could drape a napkin over your very charming décolleté?”

“I will do no such thing,” she said stiffly, feeling herself blush under his gaze. Charming décolleté, indeed.

“I discover you are a wife who enjoys the scent of risk. How delightful.”

“And I discover you are a husband given over to distraction.”

“Only with you, Caro. You are a profound distraction.”

Caro could feel herself smile. The only thing that made it tolerable was that Ashdon was grinning right back at her. It was rather charming of him.

“If you would proceed, Lord Ashdon,” she said. “I have other things with which to occupy my day.”

“Of course. There are so many windows and doors in this house, after all,” he said, winking at her.
Really!
“Now then, briskly, Westlin and Sophia are enemies, whether your mother will admit it to you or not. There was some disturbance in their relationship some twenty years ago or thereabouts, and Westlin has made it his life’s purpose to achieve a revenge upon her, the variety of little importance. Nor the cost, I might as well mention.”

He said it so swiftly, so casually, but his eyes told the truth. His eyes, as usual, were sheathed in melancholy. The cost. What had been the cost of Westlin’s revenge? Certainly Ashdon had paid. What had he said? He’d been fashioned as a tool for his father’s revenge against her mother. Twenty years in the making, Ashdon had been but ten when his forging into a weapon for his father’s hand had begun.

No, the cost had not been counted.

“He sounds a fool,” Caro said crisply. “One should always count the cost. Or as my mother puts it, one must set the price as the very first condition of any action. A trifle mercenary, perhaps, but nonetheless true.”

Ashdon smiled and shook his head in amusement. “I was taught to hate her, you know, and kept a careful distance from her. She was like a pox, Westlin said, and must be avoided until he judged me ready to withstand her.”

Caro’s heart melted and sank into her hips. This was what she feared. This was what she’d always feared. No man would want her when he could have her mother. She did not blame her mother. She never had. Sophia was legendary and deservedly so. What was left to Caro but to have a husband bought for her? And here he stood. Before marrying Lord Dalby, men had paid to have Sophia. For Sophia’s daughter, a man had to be paid to take her.

There was nothing charming about her at all. She scanned the table looking for a likely napkin for her completely pathetic décolleté.

“Of course,” Ashdon continued, crossing his legs, “Westlin was completely wrong, as I’ve discovered.”

“Oh?” she said distractedly, casually scanning the floor for her fichu.

“Sophia is unique,” he said, watching her as she avoided his gaze. “I rather like her, but you are the woman I could not withstand, Caro.”

Her gaze jerked up to him, her fichu and her décolleté forgotten. He was doing it again, piercing her with his blue eyes.

“I beg your pardon?”

“As well you should,” he said. “I was twenty years in being prepared to manage Sophia, but none at all in preparing against you. I rather think twenty years would hardly begin to be enough. I am looking forward to putting it to the test. Twenty years from now, let us see if I can resist lifting your skirts and taking you in our dining room. Shall we wager on it? ”

Her breath was trapped in her throat, her heart trapped in her lungs, but her smile, her smile broke free and completely took over her face.

“I do think you should give off wagering, Ash,” she said. “You have no talent for it. And I should hate to be the one to ruin you.”

“Darling Caro,” he said, rising to his feet, displaying his arousal most spectacularly, “you have already ruined me. The whole town is talking of nothing else. You must do
something
to restore my good name.”

“I can’t think what,” she said, watching him as he walked around the table toward her. Her stomach was fluttering and her breasts tingling and he hadn’t even touched her, well, unless one discounted the piercing quality of his eyes. She didn’t. With Lord Ashdon, nothing could be discounted.

“Then let me show you,” he said, taking her by the hand like the most gallant of gentlemen and leading her to the dining room door that led to the white salon.

This time, he removed his coat and cravat. This time, her slippers fell off.

She could only imagine what would happen the next time. She laughed just thinking of it.

Twenty-four

THE Duke of Calbourne, Lady Dalby, and Mrs. Warren sat in the white salon listening to the sounds of rhythmic bumping and moaning coming from just beyond the door to the dining room. The exact same sounds had been heard while they were in the yellow salon just a half hour before. They had, for the sake of civility and good breeding, changed rooms. They, for the sake of delighted curiosity, did not change rooms now.

“Lord Ashdon seems to have lost all control,” Sophia said, smiling as she took a sip of coffee. “How completely delicious.”

“Delicious, Lady Dalby?” Calbourne asked, fidgeting with the hem of his coat. He looked quite red about the ears, poor darling.

“But of course, your grace. Certainly no average girl could reduce her husband of an hour to such a state of … desperation. I hesitate to admit it, but I think my daughter has quite surpassed me, not that I’m not delighted, of course. One does like to see one’s children do well in the world, do they not, your grace?”

“My son is not yet eight, Lady Dalby,” Calbourne said with an uncomfortable smile.

“Yes, but one can never begin planning too early for one’s child,” Sophia said. “More coffee, Mrs. Warren?”