by Emma Wildes
What did she have to lose? She said quietly, “The day Brianna met Colton, I met you.”
This time, he was the one who took a step closer and stared down at her, his eyes narrowed.
“That was months ago. Last year, if I recall. We were introduced, no more. Rebecca, don’t tell
me you’ve . . . I mean, all this time—”
“I just did.” Her voice trembled as she interrupted. He was close enough she could smell the hint
of his cologne and clean linen. “I haven’t married . . . because of my feelings for you.”
There was a silence. Finally he rasped out, “I am going to strangle my brother.”
He was going to kiss her. Then Robert was going to throttle his interfering brother.
But first, the kiss. The one he should have stolen that night in the garden, the one he’d sell his
soul to the devil for right now.
She knew it, too. Women had unerring instincts when it came to predatory men. Robert could tell
by the way her eyes widened and her breath quickened as he stepped closer, his hand touching
her waist. She tilted her head back and her lashes drifted down that very meaningful distance that
indicated willingness and desire. It was a signal he recognized easily, even if she didn’t know she
gave it.
Or maybe she did know, though he’d wager his last coin she hadn’t been kissed often, if ever.
Desire. It whirled in his blood, and clogged his brain, for surely something prompted him to such
a rash action as kissing Miss Rebecca Marston.
Robert lowered his head just as he had in the garden a few weeks ago. This time he didn’t merely
brush against her, but brought his mouth to hers with light pressure. Soft, subtle, tentative.
Completely unlike any kiss he’d ever given or received. A virginal kiss for her—though he was
the farthest thing from an innocent possible. As he’d imagined, she felt like heaven, tasted like
purity, and was sublimely perfect in his arms.
Rebecca’s hands settled on his shoulders, her touch as light and delicate as when she bent over
the pianoforte, and he stifled a low groan, picturing that same dreamy look on her face. He could
feel the rush of blood to his lower body, the urgency of arousal, then the inevitable swelling of
his cock against the cloth of his breeches.
He shouldn’t be doing this. Not coaxing her mouth open to delve his tongue deep, not nipping at
her soft lips, not imagining her warm and naked in bed beneath him.
It went on. The subtle exchange of breath, the dance of tongue against tongue, the shift as their
bodies moved closer and closer . . . his arm fully encircled her now, and surely she could feel his
physical reaction, yet instead of being girlishly alarmed, she clung to him with unrestrained
passion, twining her arms around his neck.
The rap on the glass of the window shook him out of his madness. Damien called out, “I think the
walk Miss Marston and I have taken is over, don’t you? If we are gone too long, her mother will
expect me to arrive back and request an audience with Sir Benedict.”
Robert wrenched his mouth away, looked into the eyes of the woman still pressed against him,
and wondered if he was downright stupid or just gripped in the fist of lust.
Though his body screamed in protest, he managed to let her go. He bowed. “Your swain awaits.”
She stood there, her mouth damp from his attentions, her chest rising and falling quickly. “We
leave tomorrow.”
“I know.” The devil take it, he was hard and hot, his bodily discomfort echoed by his inner
turmoil. He wanted this party to end immediately and ease his confusion. If he could only get
away from her distracting presence, he would be fine.
He was sure of it.
Almost.
Bloody hell.
“What happens next?” she whispered, the innocent longing in her expression like a knife neatly
carving up his soul. “Maybe we can meet later tonight. Once everyone is asleep.”
It was an insane suggestion in an already extremely unreasonable situation. “No,” he bit out too
sharply, her suggestion sparking visions of her with her hair unbound, creeping into his
bedchamber. “It’s out of the question.”
“Why?”
“For one thing, should your father catch us—and I am going to guess if Damien has noticed
our . . .”
“Our?” she prompted when he groped for the right word, looking somehow innocent and alluring
at the same time, and exuding a feminine triumph unmistakable in the depths of her beautiful
eyes.
He didn’t cooperate by supplying the definition of what he wasn’t sure he could define anyway,
but snapped out instead, “If Damien has noticed, your father may have also. I have no desire to
meet him on the field at dawn. It would tarnish your reputation and cause you distress. There is
no way I would want to injure your father, and the alternative isn’t all that appealing either.” He
added abruptly, “I may leave for London early tomorrow.”
God, yes, he needed to get away from her.
She looked at him and said nothing. Then she said without inflection, “I suppose Damien is right
and I should go. My mother will be selecting my wedding dress in another five minutes.”
Wedding dress.
If she could have picked better words to bring him back to stark reality, he wasn’t sure what they
would be. Robert inclined his head. “Who could blame her? After all, my brother is,” he said in
full irony, “an excellent catch. In your father’s eyes, I assure you, I’m not at all in the same
category.”
“My father told me to stay away from you,” she admitted. “I don’t understand—”
He made a helpless gesture with his hand that said more than he really intended. “It was
something that happened several years ago. I won’t go into the details, but suffice it to say he has
the wrong impression and has disdained me ever since. Should I wish to formally court you, I
couldn’t.”
“Robert,” she whispered, her lips trembling.
Her tentative use of his first name was the last thing he needed. As calmly as possible, he said,
“Rebecca. Go.”
To his relief, she turned and left him.
Chapter Fifteen
I know it is a cliché, but reformed rakes do make
admirable husbands. Why? First of all, their wild
oats are thoroughly sown. The second reason?
They know how to please a woman between the
sheets. Think about it. After all, that is what made
them rakes in the first place.
From the chapter titled: “When You Know, You Know”
If her courage held, it would be a miracle. Brianna adjusted her negligee, custom-made for the
occasion, and tried to conquer the bevy of butterflies holding court in her stomach.
The nightdress, she reminded herself, was supposed to be provocative. He was her husband; he
was allowed to see her in any attire, and he had seen her wearing much less in the past.
But it was beyond daring, and obviously meant for seduction.
The neckline plunged down between her breasts, making the gown she’d worn to the opera seem
demure. Her arms were bare, there was a slit up both sides of the skirt, and the back dipped so
low she was sure if she turned her bottom would peek out.
A good start to what she hoped would be a memorable evening.
Practically nude, La
dy Rothburg advised, could be more alluring than the real thing. Veil
yourself in sheer cloth, give him a glimpse of paradise, and then tantalize him into losing his
control.
Think like a courtesan.
Maybe she could, but not without a little help from the infamous seductress. It would never have
occurred to Brianna to think about keeping Colton intrigued by trying something new, not when
he seemed to so enjoy their lovemaking as it was—vastly improved from their less than
auspicious beginning. As she looked back on her wedding night, she realized just how little her
mother had actually explained about the act of love. A wry smile touched her mouth as she
recalled their woman-to-woman “talk.”
Colton had done his very best to relax her, including dousing the lights before he undressed.
Which made matters worse because then she really couldn’t see him—and when she felt the hot,
erect length of his arousal against her, she’d all but panicked. But the truth was, she was very
much in love with her husband and she’d wanted to please him, and once the stinging pain of his
first entry had passed, she found she liked the feel of him over her and in her.
She looked forward to it now.
No longer a timid young bride, she was going to make this celebration wickedly different from
anything else they’d done.
Tonight she was going to seduce him in the most sinful way possible, beguile him, and if Lady
Rothburg’s book was correct, satisfy a hidden male fantasy most men declined to acknowledge.
Brianna intended this to be their most memorable evening yet.
There had been women before her, she knew that. When she first met Colton, enjoyed the first
fateful waltz and fell headlong into the warm glow of love, she hadn’t really given his past a
thought. Now, a little older and definitely more sophisticated, she understood he’d been hardly
innocent when they married. He wasn’t Robert, but he wasn’t a saint, either.
Good. She didn’t want a saint. She wanted a man crazy with lust for her.
With love, if she was honest with herself, but Colton wasn’t one to talk about his feelings, so she
would settle for demonstration until he was ready to acknowledge deeper emotion in a verbal
way.
Maybe he would never say it. That disheartening possibility existed, but if she knew he felt it,
maybe that would be enough.
Brianna ran her brush through her long, loose hair one more time, smoothed the sheer silk at her
hips, and turned to survey the room. Candles were lit, a hint of perfume in the air, a bottle of
champagne and two glasses by the bedside, the bed turned down invitingly to show cream silk
sheets. It was perfect.
All she needed was her husband.
Walking to the door separating their bedrooms, she listened to see if his valet had left for the
evening, and upon not hearing voices, opened it a fraction. To make sure she wouldn’t embarrass
herself if she was mistaken, she peered through the cracked door.
And caught her breath. Colton was clad only in his breeches, his torso bare. His back was turned
to her, and she saw the ripple of hard muscles as he bent to pick up his dressing gown, neatly laid
out on the bed.
The timing was perfect. He was undressing and she wanted him undressed. Brianna slipped into
the room and walked toward him. “Preparing to retire, darling?”
He swung around and his brows shot up as he took in her attire. He stood frozen in place.
Brianna smiled, hoping her nervousness wasn’t evident. “May I suggest my room?”
For a moment he appeared lost for words, and then he flicked another glance over her very
scandalously clad body and said, “Not that I object to what I see, but what if my valet had still
been here, Brianna?”
“I listened.” She pointed at the door. Leave it to Colton to scold her even as he stared at her with
that promising hungry look in his eyes.
Still holding his robe, he asked with just a slight rasp in his voice, “Did you?”
“I’ve been waiting for you.” She indicated her gown—if one could call a froth of lace that
covered nothing a gown—with a small wave of her hand. “It’s your birthday.”
“So it is,” he murmured. “Are the two things connected? My birthday and your ‘waiting’? If that
siren’s costume is part of my gift, I gladly accept it.”
“I want to make love to you.”
As she had expected, he misunderstood her meaning, covering the distance between them in three
long strides. “It will be my pleasure to oblige you.”
Her palm flattened against his chest as he reached for her. “No, Colton, I wish to oblige you. This
is my birthday gift. You need do nothing but lie back and enjoy. I am going to make love to you,
not the other way around.”
“Brianna—”
“It is rude,” she interrupted archly, “Your Grace, to churlishly refuse a gift.”
“As if I would decline this one,” he said, holding her gaze. “Fine, then. Since we seem to be
playing by your rules, what is it you would have me do?”
She pointed to the door. “Go in there, remove your breeches, and lie down on the bed. You may
leave your dressing gown here, as you will not need it.”
“I won’t, will I?” A trace of the pompous duke lingered in his voice. He was used to giving
orders, not taking them.
“No,” Brianna responded, holding his heated gaze.
As long as the man in question has a modicum of intelligence and self-confidence, he is intrigued
when a woman takes charge in the bedroom. Oh, he will not want it to be this way all the time,
for the male of our species feels the need to dominate, especially when sexual intercourse is
involved—but trust me, he will find the reversal of your roles exciting now and again.
He walked to the door, glanced back with an unfathomable look on his face, and went into her
bedchamber.
Brianna took a deep breath and followed.
She watched as he deliberately unfastened his breeches and shoved them down his lean hips,
releasing his erection. Then he lay down on the bed on his back and looked at her, one chestnut
brown eyebrow raised in unmistakable challenge, his cock at full attention.
I really can do this, Brianna assured herself, looking at his blatant arousal. Indeed, she was
already halfway there—for he’d cooperated—at least as much as she ever expected him to
cooperate.
But what would he do when she tied him up?
She continually surprised him, and that wasn’t always a bad thing. The nightdress, for one—or
whatever that concoction of froth that did nothing but showcase her delectable breasts and
emphasize the length of her legs could be called. It was something a harlot would wear, yet with
her tumbled golden hair and pale, perfect skin, she managed to make it look angelic.
Pure.
As in purely intoxicating.
He wasn’t Robert, downing wine this evening like he had a financial interest in the vineyards of
France, but he did feel off balance enough to wonder if he was dreaming. Brianna’s recent fatigue
made him leery of taxing her strength by keeping her up late, and he’d promised himself to not
approach her this evening.
Instead, she’d approached him.
“Close your eyes.”
The sultry suggestion made him laugh, a s
ound torn from deep in his chest as she walked across
the room toward him, her hips moving in a seductive sway.
“If you wished me to close my eyes, madam, you shouldn’t have chosen that particular attire,” he
said, admiring the gentle shift of her breasts with each step.
“Can you humor me?” There was a breathless quality to her voice, and her midnight blue eyes
held his with a curious luminescence.
I would give you the world.
He didn’t say it out loud, and even the thought was startling. Brianna had taken on a new persona
in his eyes. She wasn’t just a very beautiful young woman who aroused his lust and graced his
bed. Over the past five days he’d watched her interact with his grandmother, charm his brothers,
act the gracious hostess to their guests, laugh with her friends, and most of all be his wife.
Not just the Duchess of Rolthven. No, not just that.
But his wife. He had the oddest feeling that if he lived in a fish shack off the shore of Wales and
relied on the sea for his living, he would still be happy with her at his side.
The most confounding thing of all was that he realized he’d never even considered the idea of
happiness before. That emotion was just something he’d always assumed was his. He was
privileged. Titled. Wealthy. Powerful. Hence . . . happy.
Upon reflection, no, not so. He knew too many of his class who led meaningless lives. They spent
their fortunes, drank to excess, exchanged mean-hearted gossip, and avoided one of the
fundamentals that made existence on this planet worthwhile.
Love.
It was the first time he’d contemplated the matter, and with his wife so close—and so naked—he
couldn’t exactly concentrate. “Humor you?”
“Close your eyes,” she repeated. “And put your arms over your head.”
He’d walk across glowing coals for her at this point. “I see little sense in your request, but I’ll
comply.”
Colton let his lashes drift down and lifted his arms above his head so they rested on the ornate
headboard. His cock, hard against the plane of his stomach, pulsed in time with the beat of his
heart.
Brianna joined him on the bed. He could feel the give of the mattress and the wash of her
evocative scent made his muscles tighten. When she bent over him and her silky hair brushed his