A Rogue of One's Own

by Evie Dunmore

  “You . . .” He tried again. “You do have experience. With men. Don’t you?”

  Chapter 23

  You do have experience. With men. Don’t you?

  The turbulence at the back of his eyes made her want to lie. But she never lied.

  “Does it signify?” She sounded rather recalcitrant.

  Tristan was regarding her as if she were a stranger. “Does it signify?” he repeated. “It does. Because I don’t bed virgins.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Not ever,” he bit out, and sat up.

  She sat up, too, grabbing the edge of a tartan blanket to cover her chest. “Why?”

  “Because they are virgins.” He sounded prim, rather incongruous with his bare, tattooed chest.

  “Goodness,” she said, amazed. “The rogue has a conscience.”

  He blanched. “I do not. I just don’t care for dramatics. A woman fumbling and crying in my bed—not my taste.” He snatched his shirt off the blankets. “And they require training, which would be tedious.”

  A pang of panic hit her stomach when he came to his feet. He was leaving. The bite of pain he had caused was only just fading. He’d leave her with the pain and none of the pleasure.

  “So it is a matter of convenience,” she ventured.

  “Absolutely.” He struggled into his shirt, attempting it the wrong way first, and, when his head appeared again, he said, “No shag is worth major inconvenience. Therefore, no bedding of virgins, or sisters, daughters, or mothers of close friends—dealing with lawyers: major inconvenience.” He stooped and picked up his waistcoat.

  “Mothers?” she said, aghast. “Daughters?”

  He was buttoning himself up with military precision.

  He would leave.

  She fought a surge of nervous anxiety. “I won’t be inconvenient,” she said. “I never cry. And I read widely on the matter, all sorts of accounts, lascivious ones—I know enough.”

  His eyes were cold. “You know nothing.”

  She came to her feet, her own temper rising. “You never asked whether I take lovers. And I never claimed I did.”

  “You talk about women acknowledging their desires,” he said under his breath as he strode toward the heap that was his jacket. “A while ago, I noticed your coat smelled like my men’s when they returned from a brothel—then again, you would walk through neck-deep debauchery just to take notes for an essay or such, of course you would.”

  She drew herself up to her full height. “It was hardly my intention to break your virtuous rules,” she said to his back. “But it is too late. I’m afraid they have been broken; the virtue, and the rules.”

  He stilled. The hand that had caressed her so intimately clenched and unclenched by his side.

  The speed at which they had gone from ecstasy to awkwardness was astounding. She was reeling from it. He was right, she knew very little. Still.

  “Since my virtue has been disposed of, perhaps consider staying.”

  He turned around, disbelief plain on his face. “Disposed of,” he echoed.

  She gave an apologetic shrug. “I confess I never relished the idea of dying an old maid.”

  Of going to her grave never having been touched. Never having been kissed.

  She had used to wonder how it would be, kissing Tristan, and her imagination had been lacking. It was a glorious and terrifying thing, the moment all-consuming, akin to hurtling toward the glittering surface of water after jumping from a great height. Of course, she had been punished for hurling herself off the rock back then.

  It felt as though she was being punished now, too.

  He was staring at her with anger in his eyes.

  It dawned on her that his exaggerated reaction might be of a pragmatic rather than a moral nature. He had mentioned lawyers. He was a nobleman. And at the end of the day, she was still the daughter of an earl, unattached, and young enough to bear children. Men like Tristan could not ruin women like her with impunity; marriage was usually the only way to atone for such a transgression, and rakehell or not, the most sacred tenets of polite society would still run deep.

  She sighed with relief, and his brows lowered censoriously.

  “Tristan, you must know that the virtue of a woman my age is not a prize,” she said. “It has low bartering value. Don’t frown so—I don’t understand precisely how it works myself. But one moment, a lady’s virtue is her sole worth, the one attribute that determines who, if anyone, will marry her; the next moment, it’s something to pity and snicker about because the lady failed to give it away fast enough. In my position, it is, frankly, quite useless.”

  Tristan slowly shook his head. “Do not use politics to try and command me to bed you.”

  He walked out, not taking his hat.

  She stood staring at the empty doorway, a sinking feeling threatening to pull her to the floor. The most indiscriminate seducer of England was leaving without a backward glance, after merely sampling a taste.

  “You have already ruined me—at least do it properly,” she tossed into the room.

  The answering silence could not have been more pointed.

  She sank back down onto the blankets. “Please.”

  A numbing cold spread through her from a place inside her chest. She closed her eyes and forced a calming breath. It was unacceptable to feel unsettled over a man. Especially over such an indecisive one.

  When her eyes opened, he loomed in the doorway, cutting her a look she would not be able to read in a hundred years.

  She bit her lip. Had he come to collect his hat?

  He walked straight past it, back into the circle of light, making the flames of the candelabra flatten and sway.

  He went down on his knees before her, his expression a commingling of apprehension and want.

  “Hell,” he said softly. “I cannot deny you when you say please.”

  He curved his hand around the back of her head, and his mouth was on hers. Her hands fluttered up, startled, then settled on his shoulders. Worrying, how fast her lips softened beneath his again, how she already clung to him again . . .

  Tristan raised his head, his breathing ragged. “Have you locked the cat away?”

  She blinked slowly. “Why?”

  He gave her a speaking glance. “The only claws I’m of a mind to enjoy on my back tonight are yours.”

  “Oh. I put her outside before you came.”

  He gave a nod. “We shall begin your tutorial, then. Lesson number one: never tell a man you won’t be inconvenient.”

  She made to reply, and he shook his head. “Never,” he said. “You would both be sorely disappointed. Now. Undress me.”

  He sat back on his heels, a challenging look in his eyes.

  Her gaze traveled over his torso, assessing. There was a purpose to this, and she was not certain which.

  “Very well.” She raised her hands to push the topcoat off his shoulders, and her blanket slipped and pooled around her hips. Her cheeks heated. He was fully dressed, and she was naked, save the curtain of her hair.

  He kept his eyes on her face. “Go on.”

  “Patience, my lord.”

  She divested him of the topcoat, then set to work on his jacket. He was not assisting her, and it was a near embrace as she wrestled his arms out of the tailored sleeves. The tips of her breasts brushed the silk of his waistcoat, and the delicate contact shot an electrifying current all the way to her toes. At her soft gasp, he shifted. She glanced up and found his face tense, his eyes black mirrors for the erratic play of the firelight.

  “Courage,” he murmured. “It won’t bite.” He nodded at his chest, at his waistcoat.

  She hesitated. There was something rather deliberate about undoing buttons. A shyness came over her she had not felt when he had been on his knees before her earlier, doing scandalous th
ings with his mouth. It would be easier, she reflected, if he were to just overwhelm her again now.

  The waistcoat’s buttons were mother-of-pearl, smooth against her fingertips. By the fourth, she was proficient at it.

  “This is you still trying to change my mind, is it not,” she said as her hands worked.

  His smile held no humor. “If this part gives you doubts, you should refrain from what comes next.”

  He was not just giving her more time to reconsider, she realized. As cotton and silk slid through her fingers, she was learning his body, too: the strength and size and textures of him, the hardness of his shoulders when she pulled off his braces; the warmth and smoothness of his skin when she dragged her palms down the planes of his abdomen, and farther down, to the fall of his trousers. A haziness entered her and left her breathless at the first button there. By the time she had undone the last, she was burning. She touched him without looking, but the way Tristan’s lips parted so helplessly when her fingers brushed over hot velvet made her head swim.

  He snatched her hand off him and rid himself of his remaining clothes with remarkable speed. She was nudged flat onto her back, and he was on top of her, large and naked and radiating heat.

  “Wait.”

  She had come prepared; she reached behind her and nudged the small wooden box containing the sheaths toward him.

  The dark intent in his gaze never wavered, he just nodded and handled himself adroitly and with ease. But when he gathered her close again, the inevitability of what was to come made her weak in his arms. He rolled over her, keeping his legs well between her thighs, and his body on top of hers was heavy and overwhelming. A look into his lust-glazed eyes, and she knew she would never succeed at disengaging from his embrace unless he let her.

  He must have sensed it, because his urgency eased.

  “Lucie.”

  Her breath was coming in gusts.

  “Lucie.” He was holding her face.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you wish to stop?”

  She eyed his broad shoulders, dwarfing her. She felt his desire humming in his muscles, barely leashed. “Will you be able to stop?”

  Surprise sparked in his eyes. “Of course. Always.”

  Her hands, locked behind his neck, loosened again and flattened against his nape.

  He lightly stroked her cheekbones with his thumbs. “I am not asking you to trust me. But trust me tonight. If you wish for me to stop, a word suffices.”

  Her longing returned as an aching, yearning pull.

  She tugged his head back down. “I do not want you to stop.”

  He kissed her hard. But he came to her gently. He was careful with her, she felt it in the slowness of his advance, as though they were moving through honey. It was in the tenderness of his lips against her cheeks, her nose, her brow, as he sought to soothe the pressure of his possession. He was careful as though she were breakable in his hands. An entrancing sensation, to be fragile and to be handled with care. Entrancing also to see his face above her, wholly unguarded. He was a stranger and he was moving inside her, and she gave over to the steady, sliding rhythm, to his warm scent and his gasps of pleasure. She was floating, watching them from above surrounded by a ring of fire, his broad back over her, her slim white legs wrapping around his hips. She watched until Tristan arched and threw his head back on a broken yell.

  She lay across his chest, and he had his arms locked around her as though he did not wish to be separated from her again just yet. She lay stiff in his embrace, feeling his heart beat hard and fast beneath her ear, her own pulse still hammering from what had transpired. But as her mind rallied, trying to assert whether being held so intimately afterwards was a regular thing, her body was already softening against his. As though it was quite familiar now with his physicality and considered him a safe place for resting.

  As his breathing slowed, her head grew heavy on his shoulder. “You never stole my pamphlets at Claremont, did you?” she asked softly.

  “Of course not, silly.” He sounded drowsy. She lay and listened as he fell asleep.

  Some time between the darkest hour of the night and dawn, he reached for her again, or she for him. She found herself back under him, caressing warm, firm muscle and kissing silk soft lips, until the growing urgency pulled her from her dreams enough to say yes, she would have him once more. He was one with the dark, but his hands raised her knees, and heat bloomed wherever he touched, and this time, his passion and patient persistence consumed her. When a white heat blazed behind her eyes, she bit down hard on her lip to stifle her cries.

  Chapter 24

  Most men are by nature rather perverted, and if given half the chance, would engage in the most revolting practices—including performing the act in abnormal positions; mouthing the female body, and offering their own vile bodies to be mouthed in return.

  She was curled up on her side, the floorboards hard against her hip, and watched the morning sun draw gentle patterns onto walls and curtains. The room looked different, viewed from a blanket nest by the fireplace. A tranquil tableau of age-worn furniture and fading oriental rugs, all the lines softened by the fuzzy gold of dawn.

  There was a dull ache between her legs that was new. She had expected this. The surprise was that the feeling wasn’t entirely unpleasant. She smiled at the room. An old maid no more.

  Some young women actually anticipate the wedding night ordeal with curiosity and pleasure—beware such an attitude!

  She had read any variety of immoral publications to understand the relations between men and women, and yet it was prim Ruth Smythers’s advice for new brides that kept intruding. The Smytherses of the world would have the vapors seeing her now, naked and glowing with warmth from her fingertips down into her toes. There wasn’t an inch of her body where Tristan hadn’t put his mouth. Not one part he hadn’t licked or kissed by the time the morning chorus had filtered through the windows. She squeezed her eyes shut, her face flaming. The things she had let him do . . . A soft puff of breath behind her back had her freeze.

  He had stayed the night.

  What did one say, the morning after?

  His even breathing said he was still asleep.

  Gingerly, she rolled onto her back and paused. When he didn’t stir, she slowly, slowly, turned over to her side.

  He slept on his back, the powerful shoulders exposed, his face turned toward her. His forearm was flung carelessly above his head.

  He had not been as cavalier last night. He had fallen asleep with his arms locked around her from behind, and whenever she had tried to creep to a cooler, less disturbingly intimate spot, he had dragged her back into the curve of his body without waking. Perhaps this was why some of his affairs ended in headlines of women threatening to jump into rivers—how easily he gave his lovers the feeling of being the only woman in the world, and that even asleep, he knew he must keep her close. Admittedly, it was a heady feeling.

  The sun’s rays streaming in made him golden, too. He was hardly in need of gilding. His scheming mind at rest, the structure of his face was uncorrupted by dissolution, cynicism, calculation. Here was the clean, gloriously symmetrical countenance of the angel Hattie and every Old Master aspired to eternalize on canvas. The slumbering Gabriel in repose.

  Odd. She preferred him awake. Not one artistic bone in her body, and even she could tell that his wicked mind turned his face from perfection to alluring.

  Her right hand slipped from beneath the blanket. Her fingers traced the air above his brow. The noble bridge of his nose. The ridge of his left cheekbone. She had once seen it bloom red with her handprint. How angry she had been at the ways of the world that day in Wycliffe Park. How helpless.

  Her hand drifted lower, to his throat.

  A sudden motion, a rustle, and her wrist was trapped in an uncompromising grip.

  Tristan’s eyes were on her,
half-lidded but alert.

  He must have been awake awhile.

  She gave a tug.

  He held fast, but his grip relaxed. The lingering look he gave her held all the hours of the night. A shameless replay of every low moan and kiss and eventual surrender. Two surrenders, truth be told. Sure enough, a smug gleam entered his gaze and she felt her face warm with a blush.

  “How did you know my hand was there?” she murmured.

  The corners of his eyes crinkled. “I smelled you.” He raised her hand to his face and nosed the spot where she had dabbed perfume last evening. His voice was unfamiliar, deeper and scratchy with sleep. Arousing. She was corrupted already, for shame.

  She propped herself up on her elbow. “You have a good nose.”

  His hazy gaze met hers over her wrist. “An extraordinarily good nose,” he corrected.

  “The animal is prominent in you.”

  “I did not hear you complain about that last night.” He brushed his lips against the beat of her pulse, and the soft contact made her restless. Tristan’s lashes lifted, a knowing smolder in his eyes that would have grated only yesterday. Now it roused anticipation. But his expression sobered. His hand slid up her arm and cupped her face, and he touched his thumb to her bottom lip, where she had bit down in ecstasy. It felt sore. “In fact,” he said, “I did not hear you much at all last night.”

  She drew back. “It’s hardly a requirement.”

  He nodded. “It isn’t. But there is no shame in being vocal about your pleasure.”

  She glanced away. There were some last defenses a woman had to keep when she was being foolish, and for reasons she could not name, being vocal would feel like abandoning a last bastion. She did not want to abandon it.

  Tristan sat up and cast a glance about the room, his gaze briefly snagging on Mary Wollstonecraft’s call for women’s equality above the mantelpiece.