To Lure a Proper Lady (22 page)

Elizabeth advanced from somewhere near the bed. She'd wrapped a second blanket over her bare shoulders, but somehow her state of dress only reminded him she wore nothing beneath her covers. “Whyever not?”

“She has a mouth on her. Like as not, she'll tell everyone downstairs how I've got a bit of muslin tucked away up here.”

Elizabeth busied herself with pouring tea. “So what if she does?”

“Because some of those other men might decide your favors can be bought, and I'd rather not invite the trouble of setting them straight.” He turned to the tray and lifted a dome. The scents of thyme and rich beef wafted from a hearty stew, and he recalled he hadn't eaten anything since the previous evening. His stomach growled. “Shall we?”

She took a seat, lifted the dome over her plate, and inhaled. “I'm famished.”

Good. At least they could satisfy one appetite in relative decorum.

“About the sleeping arrangements,” she said between mouthfuls. Whoever had taught her manners would likely have a fit of apoplexy to see her ravenously wolf down her meal, but somehow he didn't mind. “I think it's ridiculous of you not to consider using this bed you've paid for.”

He paused, a mug of ale halfway to his mouth. “Oh? Where were you planning on sleeping?”

She pressed her lips together. Naturally, she'd been expecting him to play the gentleman and offer to take the floor. And he would have, but he supposed she'd already prepared an argument against that. “In the bed, of course.”

He set his mug down. “In spite of what almost happened just now?”

“I propose we sleep in shifts. You may be used to going without, but I am not. As soon as I've finished eating, I plan to remedy that situation. If you think you can manage to control your impulses, you might join me.”

“I really don't think that's a sound idea.”

“If you wrap yourself in blankets and place your pillow at the foot of the bed, I really don't see the difficulty.”

He ought to protest, but suddenly previous days of fatigue caught up with him. It might have had something to do with finally feeling warm and getting a solid meal in his belly. He might feel he didn't have the strength to resist her charms, but neither did he have the energy to argue. Or maybe he'd given in and let his cock do his thinking for him.

Either way, he nodded. Whatever else happened in this room, he knew one thing. He didn't dare leave her alone.

Heart hammering, Lizzie bolted upright in bed. The tiny chamber beneath the eaves lay under shadow, illuminated by nothing more than a glimmer filtering through the window. Part of her mind registered that the rain had stopped at last, but the greater part of her faculties were tied up in wondering what had woken her from a sound sleep.

Then the sound came again. Not a knock, but an outright pounding. “Lemme in,” slurred a muffled voice from the corridor.

Like a cat, Dysart slipped from beneath the covers, stealing to the hearth to collect his breeches. The moon's glow highlighted the ripple of sinuous back muscles and taut, rounded buttocks before he covered them in buckskin. Leaning over, he grabbed something from his boot. The dim light glinted on the edge of a long blade.

Lizzie clutched the blankets to her chest, making herself as small as possible in the bed.

Knife in his fist, Dysart whipped open the door. “Wot'choo want?”

“Heard ye had yerself a bit of muslin up here.” A strange man, his stock hanging loose about his neck and the buttons at his collar undone, appeared on the threshold. He leered toward the bed. “Thought ye might be willin' t' share the bounty if'n ye were done.”

“See this?” Dysart brandished his weapon. “I calls 'er Betsy. Ye want t' become better acquainted wif 'er, I'll oblige ye.”

Palms out in supplication, the stranger backed away. “Yer pardon. I can see yer not done.”

“Make sure ye tells yer friends Betsy don't like to be disturbed.” Muttering under his breath, Dysart slammed the door.

He grabbed one of the chairs from the table and wedged it beneath the door handle. His breathing heavy, he stalked back toward the bed.

Lizzie knew better than to stare, but she could not peel her gaze away from his bare chest. The dusting of hair across the expanse tapered into a line that descended his belly to disappear beneath the waistband of his breeches. Her fingers itched to trace that path, to see where it led.

In his turn, he stood over her, expression grim, and she could practically read his thoughts. He was torn between getting back into bed with her or sitting up the rest of the night.

She patted the pillow beside her, realization striking as she ran her hand over the worn fabric. “I thought you were going to sleep head down.”

The corners of his mouth quirked upward for an instant. “You were asleep when I came to bed, and I reckoned things would be more pleasant if you didn't risk waking up with my feet in your face.”

For some reason that thought warmed her through. “You can come back now.”

He hesitated, but then the mattress dipped beneath his knee. “I suppose we've managed so far.”

His head hit the pillow next to her. So close. Dark stubble peppered his cheeks and chin. That was another texture she wanted to learn, but she knew if she tried, he'd be back on his feet as if the devil himself set fire to them.

“The weather's cleared.” She settled for angling her body toward his, one elbow beneath her head. “We'll be able to go on tomorrow.”

“You should take Boudicca and go home.” He mirrored her position, but a tangle of blankets still separated them. “I'll see about getting myself to London.”

“What a marvelous idea. I'm certain any number of the drunken louts downstairs would adore seeing me home.”

He pressed his lips together, and she knew she'd won that point. “We'll have to hire another carriage. Even with dry weather, your papa's coach won't be dug out so quickly.”

“Do we have any funds left?”

“I'll manage.”

“I don't suppose we can ask the landlord to send the bill to the Duke of Sherrington. The way I'm dressed, no one will believe I'm his daughter.”

“Not to mention spending the night with me.” His tone hardened. “You're quite fortunate no one recognized you.”

Her blasted reputation. Good Lord.

“Go to sleep,” he added.

“I can't.” No, she was wide awake. Her mind hummed with the tantalizing glimpse of Dysart's backside and his smooth motions as he jumped into his breeches.

Giving in to her earlier impulse, she eased her fingers along his chin, his whiskers pleasingly rough under her touch. She wanted to feel their scrape against her cheek.

“Lady Elizabeth.” His voice carried a warning note, but he didn't pull away.

“I think you should call me Lizzie.”

“That sounds like a very bad idea.”

“I feel like a Lizzie.” Someone named Lady Elizabeth would never have run off from the manor in boy's clothes. She'd have blanched at sleeping in an inn of this caliber. She'd never dream of sharing a bed—naked—with a Bow Street Runner. “I like
Lizzie
better.”

“If I call you
Lizzie,
will you go to sleep?”

“I'm not the least bit tired,” she protested. “It must have been mid-afternoon when I went to bed. It feels like it ought to be morning now.” Boldly, she let her fingers stray lower, down his throat, where the prickle of stubble gave way to softer skin and hair.

A groan emerged from his chest. “You're killing me.”

“Only because you're resisting.”

Heavens, from her first Season, she'd been warned against less than scrupulous gentlemen who would attempt to compromise her for any number of reasons, from the challenge of the chase to the hope of allying themselves with a duke's family. Never once had she expected to play the role of seducer, and yet here she was. Again.

“Don't you think I ought to resist?” In direct contrast with his words, he brushed his knuckles along her cheek. “One of us should. You know that as well as I.”

She flattened her palm against his chest. Muscles jumped beneath heated skin—power beneath her hand, and she could cause it to tremble. The sense of control filled her to overflowing. His strength could belong to her. “Maybe I'm tired of always answering to society's expectations. Maybe once, just once, I'd prefer not to do my duty.”

“There is no future in it.” But he was wavering. He'd have placed distance between them if his will was holding.

She blinked against a sudden spate of tears. Her duty, her entire future, included an endless stretch of years with Snowley at her side. “Just for tonight, I do not wish to have a title. Please. You walked away from society. Let me do so. Just for tonight.”

With a groan, he fell on her, lips and tongue, teeth and roaming hands. He tore at the sheets between them, baring her breasts to crush against his chest. His mouth never stopped feasting upon hers as strong arms gathered her close.

He rolled her beneath his solid weight, and in her entire life, nothing ever felt so right. She returned every last one of his kisses with equal passion, her fingers tangling in his hair, her nails digging into his shoulders, her body writhing beneath him. She'd never get enough of this delicious contact. And he'd only just begun.

He broke away and pushed himself up on his elbows to stare down at her, his breath already ragged. “Trust me, love, you don't want me to hurry things along. Not this first time.”

She'd never get enough of seeing him like this, looming over her, wanting. “Please.” More of a whimper than a demand, but she didn't care.

He traced a single finger along her throat, down over the ridge of her collarbone, passing over one rigid nipple. “Please, what? Tell me.”

“I want…” She couldn't find the words, didn't know them. Instead, she canted her hips.

“We've only just started.” Another lingering caress with that single finger. This time, he circled the taut bud. “You're not ready yet.”

“I want your tongue.”

A chuckle rumbled from the depths of his chest, low and sensual. “Where do you want it? There are a number of interesting possibilities.”

That statement sent a bolt of need coursing between her thighs. “You can start where you just touched me.”

“With pleasure.” He dipped his head to draw her nipple into his mouth, grazing the peak with his teeth before soothing with his tongue. Every move he made tugged at some secret place deep inside her.

She arched her back in silent plea. As delicious as his attentions made her feel, they were soon not enough. The space between her thighs ached with an urgency she'd never before known. She needed his fingers to make her soar the way she had last night, and by God, if he meant to use his tongue in conjunction, she would not protest.

Once again, he raised his head. “More?”

“God, yes.”

“What do you want?”

She didn't know how to ask for it. What had he termed it earlier? A
crisis
—such a strange word for a rush of ecstasy. “Do what you did last night. Make me
feel.
”

He rolled off her and peeled back the sheet the rest of the way, baring her entirely to his gaze. The heat of a blush crept up her chest to her cheeks. Though he'd certainly viewed her last night, her current state set off a different reaction. There was no hiding from him now. He saw her in all her glorious imperfection.

With a reverence, he spread both palms across her abdomen and traced the contour of her hips and thighs.

“I wonder if you'd do something for me instead.” A roughness she'd never heard from him edged his voice.

“What?”

He captured her gaze so she could not look away. “I want to see you bring yourself to completion.”

“What?” She was suddenly unable to pronounce another word.

He picked up her hand and placed it on the springy curls between her thighs. “You can do it for yourself.” He pressed down on her fingers, encouraging them to slip into the slickness of her folds. The skin there was soft and sleek and wet. So wet. “I want to watch you.”

Her breath caught.

“It isn't the same. I can't do this like you.”

He settled behind her, his chest to her back, one supporting arm about her waist. “I suspect you can do it better if you try. You know where you're most sensitive.”

Closing her eyes, she thought about the way his fingers had circled last night, circled and entered and slid. She imitated the motion, seeking that one particular spot. Heat spiked when she found it. A gasp escaped her.

One hand smoothed along her thigh to her knee. With gentle pressure, he raised it, spreading her, granting her greater access to herself, granting him a clearer view. “Yes, listen to yourself. When I touch you, I have only your reactions as guidance.”

She tried again, concentrating on that one hard little knot of need. With every stroke it seemed to tighten. She pressed down, her hips rising in counterpoint.

“Yes,” he whispered, his breath hot in her ear. “That is beautiful.”

He may think it beautiful, but she felt wicked. Utterly wanton. Though her social position meant she'd witnessed many excesses, she'd never imagined anything so decadent.

His lips moved to the side of her neck, his hand to her breast, fingers squeezing her nipple. Her pace increased. Her breath tore from her lungs. She sighed. She moaned.

“Do you remember?” he asked. “Remember how you looked at me? Do you remember how I watched you come apart?”

His low voice drove her to greater urgency. Soon now. She was drawing in, tightening, tightening. That rush was coming for her. A tremor passed through her thighs.

“I want to see that again. I want to see you melt and come apart.”

Yes, God, yes. She wanted it, too. Wanted it with everything in her.

“Do it, love. Do it
now.
”

His voice triggered her climax. Her entire body throbbed about that one center, while internal muscles clenched in rhythm. She keened to its beat until it subsided into an occasional pang. Spent, she collapsed against his chest.

When she came back to herself, he was combing his fingers through her hair, and placing tender kisses on her shoulder. She let out a long sigh, but a niggling thought buzzed in the back of her head, annoying as a horsefly flitting about the stable.

Pleasant as this interlude was, it wasn't enough. Not until he'd shown her everything there was to learn about physical relations. Not until he'd enjoyed the same rush of ecstasy she just had. Not until she made him part of her.

She turned in his embrace and pressed the flat of her hand to his chest. A smile stretched her lips—she could only hope it was seductive. “And now you.”

He should resist her attempt at seduction. He knew that as surely as he knew how to breathe—without thought. But that soft hand on his chest—God, it burned. It set more than flesh and muscle aflame. It blazed straight through every last remaining resolve to leave her untouched, as though his will was made of nothing more substantial than moonlight.

Her response, her curiosity, her guilelessness, and her strength took him apart, bone by bone, nerve by nerve, and reconstructed him as another man entirely. He'd walked away from his titled family to become Dysart the Bow Street Runner, but with Elizabeth—with Lizzie—he'd become someone else. Someone who embodied the nobility of the earl's son and the Bow Street Runner's desire to protect. With her, he felt worthy again.

Perhaps not worthy of a duke's daughter not in the eyes of society, but
Lizzie
deemed him worthy of her affection. Hers was the only opinion that mattered.

And he so desperately wanted that affection. He needed it like food and water. Craved that vital element that had been missing from his life for the past twelve years. Until now, he hadn't even realized.

That fundamental understanding speared him through to the core.

“Show me.” She smoothed her hand across his chest. “Show me how to please you.”

Good Lord, she must think he was about to deny her once again. As if he could. “You keep on the way you're going, and you'll do just fine.”

“Oh?” She arched a brow, and a playful smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. The second hand joined the first to trace a sensuous pattern across his body. “Like this?”