To Desire a Devil (26 page)

And she could press for concessions before surrender.

Beatrice leaned back in her chair, mimicking his pose. “Then you might do it for me.”

“Might I?” he said. He contemplated her, as if weighing her worth against that of his pride.

“Yes,” she said firmly, “you might. You might also offer Uncle Reggie permanent residence here in this house should you regain
your title.”

“And what would be the benefit to me of this magnanimous gesture?”

“You know full well what the benefit would be,” she said, tired suddenly of this game. “Don’t play with me.”

He took a sip of his wine and set down the glass with finality. “Come here.”

She rose and circled the table to stand before him. Her heart was beating fast and hard, but she tried to regulate her breathing.
Tried not to show how desperately he affected her.

He pushed his chair from the table and spread his legs. “Closer.”

She stepped between his legs, almost touching him, the blood rushing in her ears.

He looked up at her, a conquering warrior. “Kiss me.”

She inhaled and then bent, placing one hand on his shoulder. Her lips brushed his, and she could not control their trembling.
She straightened and looked at him.

“More,” he said.

She shook her head. “Not here. The servants will return soon to clear the meal.”

“Then where?” His eyelids drooped lazily. “And when?”

In answer, she held out her hand, for she didn’t trust her voice. Her action went against everything she’d ever been taught
about how a lady should behave. She’d been told this was wrong. That it would only lead to sorrow and disgrace. But her heart
seemed to be telling her otherwise, and she had no one else to turn to anymore. Jeremy was dead. Uncle Reggie had made clear
his displeasure with her, and Lottie was too wrapped up in her own life right now.

Which left only herself to depend upon.

He placed his hand in hers, and she gave a gentle tug to make him stand up. She led him from the room without saying anything.
The hall was deserted; Uncle Reggie didn’t like servants hanging about during the evening meal. She went quickly up the stairs,
aware of Lord Hope’s footsteps, steady and almost ominous behind her, but she didn’t look back. She took him to her own room
and then paused beside the door.

“Wait here,” she said, and slipped inside. Quick was in her room, as she was every night, waiting to help her ready for bed.

“That’ll be all,” she said to the maid. “And, Quick?”

The maid turned toward her. “Miss?”

“Be sure you don’t see anything in the hall.”

Quick’s eyes widened but she was far too good a servant to comment. She merely curtsied and left the room.

Beatrice took a deep breath and went to the door, opening it. He was outside, leaning against the wall, waiting patiently.

“Come in,” she said, and he straightened.

S
HE STOOD TALL
and prim and invited him into her room. He’d been there twice before, of course, but not at her invitation.

And that, it seemed, made all the difference.

He could feel his pulse pounding at his temple and lower down at the base of his cock. He was already erect, already ready
for her, but he moved slowly. The wolf never wanted to frighten the deer until it was ready to pounce.

She turned and went to the fire, stirring it with a poker. “Will you undress?” Her hand might be steady, but her voice was
high and thready.

“Why don’t you?” he asked, his own voice deep.

“Oh.” She set aside the poker and reached for the laces of her bodice.

“No.” In two strides he was beside her, staying her hands. “Why don’t you undress me?”

She looked at him, her face pinkening into a blush, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. He wanted to bite that lip himself,
wanted to catch her in his arms and bear her to the bed, a warlord with a prize. But he needed to have her come to him of
her own volition. True, he’d coerced her, but she’d led him here. He’d take that small bit of free will on her part.

Beatrice set her hands on his coat, slowly, carefully pushing it back over his shoulders. He moved his arms to help her take
off the garment, but otherwise he simply watched her. As a young officer in His Majesty’s army, he’d been to brothels in London
and the New World. Had sampled the favors of accomplished courtesans. Yet the sight of this properly brought-up woman taking
off his coat was far more erotic than anything he’d ever seen at a brothel.

She folded his coat and carefully set it aside. Then she stood on tiptoe and pulled off his wig. He ran his hands over his
head, scrubbing at the stubble of his hair.

“I confess it made me sad the day you cut your hair,” she said quietly.

A half smile curved his lips. “You’d rather I sport that wild mane?”

“No.” She reached up to smooth her palms over his head. “But maybe a little more hair than this. Your long hair softened your
aspect a bit. I never really realized until you cut it all off. Without it, you look so… ruthless.”

But he was ruthless. Didn’t she know that yet? He didn’t say the words, merely watched her as she bent her head over the buttons
of his waistcoat. The only sounds in the room were her breathing and the slide of fabric over the bone buttons. She reached
the end and pushed the waistcoat off his shoulders. She laid the waistcoat aside and hesitated for a moment, staring at the
expanse of his white shirt. Had her feet grown cold? Only two days before, this woman had been a virgin, and now he was demanding
that she undress him. He should take pity on her.

He grasped her hand and brought it to his chest. “The shirt next, I think.”

She began on the buttons without comment, though her breath was coming faster. The brush of her fingers, even with the fine
linen in between his skin and hers, was a torture. She undid the last button, and he raised his arms so she might draw the
shirt off over his head.

She licked her lips and glanced shyly at him from under her brows. “Everything?”

“Everything.”

She nodded, inhaling as if bracing herself, then reached for the fall of his breeches. He placed his hands on her shoulders
as she worked, watching the top of her head rather than where her hands were. She knelt to pull down his breeches, and he
stepped out of his shoes and stockings as well. When she reached for his smallclothes, her hands shook.

“Are you frightened?” he murmured.

She paused and looked at him. “No.”

And he had to clench his jaw. That frankness, those wide gray eyes above freckled cheeks, looking at him so innocently, without
guile or disguise, nearly undid him.

She took off his smallclothes, and he kicked them aside, entirely nude now.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked.

He looked at her, kneeling at his feet, her face so close to his crude erection, and several thoughts came to his mind, but
in the end, he held out his hand to her. “Come here.”

She rose, placing her hand in his, and he led her to the bed. He threw back the covers and laid himself down on his back,
propped against several pillows. He pulled her down beside him so she was sitting on the bed, her gown bunched around her
folded legs. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“I am.”

He wanted to smile but found that the rigidity of his muscles prevented him. “Then touch me.”

“Here?” She placed her palm on his chest, trailing her fingers through his chest hair.

“Yes.” He watched her face as she explored, circling a nipple. She looked intent, solemn like a little girl mastering a needlework
stitch.

“Does it feel sensitive? Like mine?” she asked.

He half closed his eyes. “It’s sensitive.”

She nodded and stroked lower, following the trail of his body hair to below his navel. Here she hesitated again, looking uncertain.

He waited, not prompting her anymore. Slowly she ran her fingers through his pubic hair, drawing ever closer to his cock.
When at last she touched him—too delicately, too softly—he let out a sigh.

Her eyes darted to his face, watching him as she traced up his shaft. He held her gaze, though he wanted to close his eyes
at the sensation of her warm fingers on his flesh. When she reached the head of his cock, she looked down again, bending closer
as if fascinated.

“It’s so hard,” she murmured, circling the helmet. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” His mouth twisted. “Not as long as it’s eventually assuaged.”

Her eyes rounded. “You mean it stays like this until—”

He laughed rustily—it was that or howl. “No. It, ah, goes away after a bit if there’s no stimulation.”

“Stimulation.” Her brows drew together as she watched her fingers wrap about his length.

“The sight of a pretty woman, the sound of her voice, the feel of her hand,” he said.

“
Any
pretty woman?” She frowned.

Ah, it wasn’t funny, not with his cock in her small, sweet hands, but his mouth quirked. “Some more than others.”

“Hmm.”

He cleared his throat. “You can stroke it.”

She tentatively rubbed him with her fingers.

“More firmly,” he murmured, and wrapped his hand about hers to show her. He brought both their hands up his cock, strongly
enough to move his skin over the stony flesh beneath, and then down again. He let go of her hand.

She did it again.

“Ye-es,” he hissed.

“You like that?”

“God, yes.”

She worked him, and he lay like a pasha among the pillows, letting her pleasure him. He watched her through slitted eyes,
her prim hair still in its bun, her serious expression, and the shockingly raw sight of his bare cock between her hands. And
he might’ve let her complete him, but then she leaned closer and with one finger touched the tip of his prick, where the clear
liquid had begun to leak. He was strong and had quite a bit of willpower, but he wasn’t made of stone.

He jackknifed up, grabbed her about her middle—ignoring her startled squeak—and twisted to put her facing the headboard of
the bed.

“Hold on there,” he ordered in a guttural voice.

Thank God she obeyed without questioning what he was about, because he wasn’t going to last long in any case. She was up on
her knees, and he simply flipped her skirts up over her hips. He ran his hands over her sweet arse, reveling in the feel of
silky flesh.

“Part your legs for me,” he said, and she widened her stance with a gasp.

He touched her there, between her thighs where she was the softest, the most tender, and he parted the wet folds, revealing
the gleaming center. He heard her whimper. That’s what he wanted, his woman, bent over, wet and waiting for him. He took his
cock in hand and guided himself to her. Christ! She was so tight, so slick. He felt sudden moisture in his eyes, and he closed
them so she wouldn’t see. This was mating, a good and proper fuck, nothing else.

But even as he worked his flesh into hers, he knew that he lied to himself. Everything about her—her scent, her feel, her
warm body, and her small panting sounds—meant something more to him.
Home.
She was home and he’d returned to her.

He pushed the odd thought aside as he shoved the rest of his length into her. He grasped the headboard on either side of her
arms and enclosed her within his embrace. She shivered, and somehow that little movement was the final straw. He began thrusting,
hard and fast, the feel of her slippery flesh around him, holding him so tightly, sending him completely out of control. She
arched her hips, pushing back at him, and he leaned forward, biting her nape to keep her steady. She gave a cry, high and
helpless, and then her cunny was flexing about him, milking his cock as she came.

He growled deep in his throat and felt his balls draw up tight as he released himself within her. Even then he didn’t stop
but kept humping her as he filled her with his seed. When finally he fell to the side, every bone in his body was liquid.
He had only enough presence of mind to clutch her to his chest as she snuggled against him.

And then he fell asleep.

H
ER BEDROOM WAS
nearly black when Beatrice woke. Her stays were poking into her side. She’d fallen asleep fully dressed. She turned her head
and saw the glow of the fireplace embers and then felt the shift as Reynaud moved beneath her hand. Carefully, quietly, she
rose from the bed. He lay, sprawled nude, on her sheets as if he had every right. She smiled a little sadly. He’d probably
say this room and this bed belonged to him, too.

Beatrice shook down her skirts and left the room. No doubt she was quite rumpled, and she wouldn’t like to meet anyone in
the hallways, but it must be past midnight by now, and she didn’t think she would. Farther down the hall was Uncle Reggie’s
room, the crack beneath the door dark. She felt a pang of regret that they’d parted on such a sour note at dinner. Would he
ever come to terms with Reynaud’s reappearance? Would he forgive her for the choices she’d made—and would make in the future?

She’d lived in this house for years, and she had no need of a candle, even in the near total darkness. She felt her way to
the main staircase and crept down like a mouse. On the main level, a footman passed in the hall below, making his way toward
the kitchen and the servant’s quarters. Beatrice stood still on the stairs, waiting patiently, and then descended silently
once he’d disappeared into the depths of the house. She stopped in the dining room to light a candle from the embers in the
fireplace, and then she took it to the blue sitting room. Here she set the single candlestick on a small table. She sank into
a settee facing the door and curled her feet beneath her on the seat.

The portrait of Reynaud was directly in front of her. Beatrice rested her chin in her hand, looking at him. All those nights,
sitting with him, dreaming of what the man behind the laughing eyes was really like. And now she knew. She knew him, had been
his lover, and he was nothing like what she’d imagined in her girlish fantasies. He was hard, sometimes cruel, driven to obtain
what he wanted; he was maddening and frustrating. He was also intelligent, caring of those he considered his own—like Henry—complex
and baffling and an exquisite lover.