The Perfect Rake (10 page)

He’d imprisoned her in a cage made of his body. And hers. Each place their bodies touched burning into her consciousness like a hot iron. His hard right hip pressed against the softness of her thigh. His strong arms were braced on either side of her, one long-fingered hand resting against her shoulder, the other so close beside her left cheek that she could feel its warmth; if she only turned her head a little, her face would be resting on his hand. He bent over her, his chest just inches from hers, and he was breathing heavily, raggedly, as if he had just run a race. And each time he breathed in, his waistcoat just brushed her breasts. Each faint, feather-light sensation sent a quiver right through her body, all the way to her toes.

Prudence held her breath and closed her eyes. She had no desire to escape. She knew she ought to, but she felt so deliciously languid…and yet hot, flustered, and tense with expectation at the same time.

She opened her eyes again and forced herself to look at him. She had to see, to know what he was thinking. He was staring down at her, for once no gleam of humor in those dark, dark eyes. He seemed almost…shaken. A faint frown creased the space between his brows. His gaze pinned her, intense, slightly puzzled, as if she were some enigma, some mystery.

“Who the devil are you, Miss Prudence Merridew?” he murmured.

Like a bucket of icy water dashed against her overheated skin, his question brought her back to her senses. She focused with all her might. “I’m sorry, Lord Carradice. I didn’t mean to cause anyone any trouble,” she said in a shaky voice, suddenly perilously near to tears. “I lied to protect my real betrothed. He is a younger son with meager prospects and dependent on my great-uncle’s good will.”

“That’s not what I meant.” His voice was deep and vibrated through her body.

She felt suddenly breathless and took an abrupt, shaky breath. Dazed by the turmoil of feelings, she groped for some sort of composure, swallowed, for her mouth was unaccountably dry, and licked her lips. A mistake, she realized instantly, for his gaze heated, and his mocking, beautiful mouth twisted with an unknown emotion, and before she could say a word, she was being kissed once more.

Prudence felt her body rise to meet his, her mouth open to receive the hot, spicy heat of him and as the dark vortex of sensation whirled around her consciousness again, the cool texture of his waistcoat and the cold metal of the buttons bit into the thin fabric covering her breasts. The heat and power of his body radiated through the clothes, and she quivered again, a long shudder of awareness.

Suddenly his hand was on her breast, caressing, teasing, causing the most exquisite sensations to ripple and shudder through her. She trembled and sighed under his hand and he groaned softly.

It was the groan that did it.

It sounded to Prudence’s ears like the purr of a self-satisfied cat. An extremely self-satisfied cat. Deep and low, seductive and…wicked.

It brought her to a shocked awareness of what she was doing. Here she was, in a strange man’s house—a strange duke’s house!—lying in an abandoned manner on a decadent Egyptian sofa receiving the most intimate and shocking liberties from a man whom she had only just met. A man, moreover, who was a known rake. A man whom she had seen for herself cared nothing for the usual proprieties or canons of good behavior. And he knew she was betrothed.

Good grief, what had she allowed him to do? She did not even know him, and what she did know should have been enough to make her shun him. He had deceived her, lied about his identity, mocked her great-uncle. He was disheveled, carelessly dressed. His chin was rough with bristles…

Prudence tried not to think of how deliciously abrasive those bristles had felt against her skin.

He had been out carousing all night. He drank brandy at breakfast time. The sharp, hot taste of his brandy was now in her own mouth. She felt the blood rise in her cheeks at the thought of it. He was a well-known rake…and Prudence Merridew, within minutes of meeting him, had allowed him unimaginable intimacies.

His hand even now stroked her thigh through her thin dress. The other one cupped her breast, his long fingers rubbing, teasing…And worst of all—

Worst of all was not that she’d allowed it—it was that she liked it. More than liked it.

Women are nothing but weak, untrustworthy vessels, slaves to their base animal instincts!
Grandpapa’s voice echoed in her mind. Prudence froze. She had fought against Grandpapa and his horrid strictures all her life. She was no weak vessel, no helpless female. She was a slave to no one and nothing. She’d prided herself on it.

Yet now, look at her! Sprawled helplessly beneath a man who had just taken the most shocking liberties—and she was wishing, most wickedly, for more!

Even though she was betrothed…How could a decent, betrothed woman possibly enjoy the illicit advances of a stranger? All her principles and resolve had simply gone up in smoke, vanquished by the casual skill of a rake.

He bent and kissed her again. His tongue lapped at her closed mouth, his teeth nipped gently at her lower lip, demanding entrance. And her body longed to open to him, allow him whatever he wanted.

…slaves to their base animal instincts…

It was not her first experience of her base animal instinct, but Prudence would be no man’s slave. She’d been taken unawares, but she was a woman of principle. Or she tried to be. She pushed his face away.

“Unhand me sir,” Prudence said crisply. “I wish to get up.” Unfortunately, the words came out feebly, almost dreamily, and with a complete lack of conviction. She was mortified to realize her hands still cupped his face. She could not seem to let go.

He took a deep breath, blinked, stared down at her, and the look in his eyes made her gasp. He seemed to shake himself, then his expression changed. It was as if a shutter came over his eyes, that gleam of laughter returned. He sat back a little, took another deep breath and—unforgivably—chuckled. “I doubt if you can stand, yet.” There was knowledge and self-satisfied male pride in his eyes, as well as amusement. And a certain careless possessiveness.

He thought her his for the taking.

The realization galvanized her resolve like nothing else could. He might be a rake, but Prudence Merridew was not a loose woman! Even if she had behaved like one for a moment or two. Or three.

Good heavens! At any minute Lily or that odious butler—not to mention Great-uncle Oswald and the duke—could walk into the room and find her carousing with a known rake! She would rather die than allow that to happen.

“I said, unhand me, sir!” This time her voice sounded much more crisp and authoritative, she noted with satisfaction. Even if her body was still feeling deliciously languid and shivery and enjoying the sensation of his arms around her far too much.

He smiled, shook his head provocatively, and tightened his hold. He leaned down, clearly intending to kiss her senseless once more. She could not allow it. Not even one kiss, much as her body might crave it. She simply had to break away from his possession of her. The longer she stayed in such intimate contact with him, the feebler her resolve. And the stronger the desire to feel his mouth on hers again…

Prudence panicked. “Let me up! I have had quite enough of your manhandling, sirrah!” Her tone was pure Great-uncle Oswald, she reflected, but it was the best she could do.

His brow quirked. “Manhandling?”

Prudence flushed. “I wish to stand up, sir. I am no longer, er, indisposed.” She could not quite meet his eyes.

“But it’s been so delightful, er, reviving you like this. Are you sure you are, er, recovered?” he purred provocatively.

That did it. He was playing a rakish game! All of Prudence’s resolve rallied. “Set me free, sir!” She raised her hands to push him back. Her reticule, still attached by the strings to her wrist, bumped against her arm.

“No.” He grinned. “I think you require a little more, ah, reviving.”

“Please let me up!”

He shook his head.

“Then if you will not do the gentlemanly thing—” Prudence said sweetly and hit him over the head with her reticule. It collided against his skull with a most satisfactory clunk. Grace had used very good quality pasteboard and had lacquered over the heathenish Egyptian designs very thoroughly.

“Ow! Blast it, what—”

She tried to push him away, but he kept her imprisoned still. She hit him again.

“Dammit—” He lifted a hand to ward off the reticule, and his grip on her loosened.

Prudence took the opportunity to wriggle out from beneath the cage of his body and slide awkwardly to the floor. She stood up and found her knees a little wobbly, so she retreated behind an ebony inlaid desk and used it to support herself unobtrusively. “How dare you—you—assault me like that!”

“Assault you?” He rubbed his head. “You have the nerve to accuse me of assault after attacking me with that blasted thing? What the devil is it, anyway?”

Prudence ignored him. “I am not for the likes of you, Lord Carradice!”

Lord Carradice stopped rubbing his forehead for a moment. He looked at her with spaniel-dark eyes and said with mock reproach, “Now, Prudence, I thought it was apparent to us both that you
like
the likes of me.” And then he grinned in an infuriatingly appealing way.

Prudence ignored the appeal and concentrated on being infuriated. “Well, you are wrong. I most emphatically do not like the likes of you!” she said in what she trusted was a convincing voice.

A devilish look came into his eyes, and he prowled toward her. “I’m certain you are mistaken. I think we should test that theory again.”

Oh heavens, he was going to kiss her again! His eyes had that hot look of dark intent she was beginning to recognize. She could not let him touch her. Prudence retreated behind the table. “Stop that at once! I am not for you, Lord Carradice.”

He looked crushed, most unconvincingly. “Oh, but after all we have meant to each oth—”

“I
told
you I am betrothed!” Prudence reiterated in desperation.

“Oh yes, so you are. I quite forgot.” Lord Carradice grinned, rubbing his head again. “You are engaged to the Duke of Dinstable—or me—or some younger son with no prospects. I forget which.”

“You know perfectly well I was never engaged to either you or the duke,” Prudence snapped. “As I explained, it was—it was a mistake!”

“Not removing that blasted reticule from your wrist was the mistake,” said Lord Carradice in an aggrieved voice. “What the deuce is it made of? Wood?”

“Pasteboard! Though I do not know what concern it is of yours—”

“It’s my concern if I get biffed over the head by it. It has a dozen sharp corners and is as heavy as lead! And besides which, it is dam—er, deuced ugly. Why the devil you must carry a thing that weighs a ton and is absolutely hideous to boot, is quite beyond me.”

“The reason I carry it should be obvious, even to you,” Prudence retorted waspishly. “A girl clearly
needs
a strong reticule in London, does she not? Especially when she comes visiting! Besides, it is not hideous. It was a gift, a labor of love by my little sister and therefore is, to me,
much
more beautiful and valuable than all the hideously expensive furniture in this decadent, horrible room!”

“Oh, I quite agree.”

Prudence looked at him through narrowed eyes. She trusted his instant agreement not a whit!

He grinned unrepentantly. “The furniture is horrible. Edward’s mother had it all done up like a pharaoh’s dinner some seven or eight years ago, in the expectation of him entering London society, but then—for reasons we shall not go into—it all came to naught, and here is this house, filled to the brim with hideous furniture that is now quite out of date! And the worst thing is, Edward has no interest in furniture, so he leaves it like this, to lacerate the sensibilities of people of taste! At least you have an excuse for carrying that frightful reticule, since it was foisted on you by an infant.”

“Grace is
not
an infant, and it was
not
foisted on me. Besides, I happen to be very fond—” She stopped herself and took a deep breath, mastering her temper with difficulty. “We will not speak of my reticule,” she said with dignity. “My reticule is not the issue here.”

“Tell that to these bruises.”

She could not prevent herself glancing at his forehead. There were indeed several faint red marks, where a pasteboard corner had dented his skin. Guiltily she met his gaze—only to find laughter spilling from wicked, dark eyes. There was not a trace of a contrition in the wretch.

Prudence opened her mouth to speak. She would wipe that confident smile off his face.

“Ahh, I see you have quite recovered,” the duke interrupted from the doorway.

Prudence wondered how long he had been standing there. Something about his expression, a lurking expression of stifled amusement, made her think he might have observed more of her dealings with Lord Carradice than she would wish anyone to witness. She felt an embarrassed flush rise.

“Yes, your color is returning,” the duke murmured in a voice of such blandness that it confirmed her suspicions. “Sir Oswald has finally managed to procure a satisfactory hackney cab, and your maidservant awaits you in the hall with some smelling salts.”

“And your betrothed will escort you to the door,” Lord Carradice added affably, “
if
you will just inform us which of us he is.” He extended his arm to her in a mockery of polite behavior.

The man was impossible. “You know perfectly well I am not betrothed to either of you!” Prudence lifted her chin and prepared to march out the door.

Lord Carradice laid a restraining hand on her arm. “Oh, but if you’ve been pining for me for the last four and a half years, I really think you deserve a fiancé.”

“Pining?”
Prudence was outraged. “I would
never
indulge in such spineless behavior! And even if I did, I would never pine for
you
, Lord Carradice, as you very well know!”

“Oh, but now you have come to know me so much better…” He waggled his eyebrows at her. “You will pine, Prudence, you will.”