My Kind of Earl

by Vivienne Lorret

  He proved it now in the way he kissed her and held her face so tenderly. And also in the way he tilted her head back as his mouth hungrily ravaged hers, like a man half-starved and hunched over a bowl of ripe fruit. But she felt the slightest tremor in the hands that cradled her cranium as if he were suppressing a stronger desire than he revealed.

  Jane wanted him to gorge himself on her. And the very notion made her feel juicy beneath her skin, compelling her to mold her body to his.

  “You don’t have to hold back. Not with me,” she said against his lips.

  His hand tightened at her nape, a low sound vibrating deep in his throat and tingling her lips as he fed it to her. Without any argument, he slid her closer to the edge of the table, nudging her knees apart until their hips were flush.

  She felt the hardness of him roll with sinuous command against her as he greedily swallowed her gasp. Having studied sketches of the male anatomy a number of times—not to mention her statue encounter—she knew what this part of him was, and knew that the process of copulation required a man’s penis to gain an erection. It had all seemed so clinical in the texts. Mere lines on a page. Being an active member in the process, however, was quite a different matter altogether. Her body responded in heated, liquid pulses. She clung to him.

  Wanting more, she suckled the tip of his tongue deeper into her mouth. He drew in a surprised breath, then exhaled a gruff grunt, his hips hitching against hers. A corresponding identical reaction happened in her, hips tilting, welcoming.

  Friction at its finest.

  Shifting her closer still, he eased her back onto the table amidst the crinkle of forgotten maps and a crunch of taffeta. Intuitively, her knees lifted higher, locking him in the throbbing cradle of her thighs. She needed to keep him here. Forever.

  “What are you thinking? I have to know all the thoughts turning in this lovely skull,” he said in a rasp against her lips, his fingertips gently tracing the outline of her face, skimming the shell of her ear, the line of her jaw.

  His tenderness only made her want to hold him tighter.

  She slipped beneath his coat and embraced him, bearing him down upon her aching breasts and quivering midriff. “I’m thinking about friction, and the combustion properties of silk and wool when rubbed together. I’m thinking about hard, geometric angles and how I never fully appreciated them until now. And I’m thinking about the canning temperature of jam.”

  He smiled against her lips. “And why jam, exactly?”

  “Because I’m certain that my insides have turned liquid, like a pot of plums and sugar bubbling over.” Her hips arched, tilting automatically in that same instant so there was no mistaking her meaning.

  His eyes were the color of smoke and steam, burning down into hers. Then he took her mouth again.

  Jane stopped thinking. She gave herself over to the feel of his hand rising along the curve of her waist, splaying over the cage of her ribs, and settling with firm possession over the swell of her breast.

  She knew she was small. Certainly not endowed like any of the prostitutes she’d seen that night at the brothel. But the vibration of Raven’s gruff growl of satisfaction put any insecurities to bed. The hard bud of her nipple crested against his heated palm. Skillful flicks of his thumb drew it tighter still as his mouth scorched a damp path down her throat with tender bites along her clavicle. A glorious agony!

  Teasing the edge of her gown at her shoulder, he gripped the silk and the ruffled edge of her chemise and petticoat, tugging them down together. Still not one to wear a corset, she soon found the moon-white globe exposed to the flicker of pale apricot light. And to Raven’s ardent attention.

  His breath came out in a hot rush against her vulnerable skin. “Ah, Jane. Just look at you, all cream and berries and . . .”

  His observations ended on a brush of lips. She gasped in wordless pleasure as his mouth closed over her, his tongue laving the crest with slow, wet licks. Holding him to her breast, her fingers tangled in his hair. She never knew anything could feel so electric and wondrous, sensations collecting on a current, coiling tightly inside her body.

  Just when she thought the pleasure couldn’t get any more intense, he suckled her flesh. Volta’s battery! Her back bowed off the table. Rapture bolted through her like lightning and settled in demanding throbs between her thighs.

  Seeking pressure against the ache, she twined her legs around his hips. But he didn’t comply. Instead, he shifted to one side, and a frustrated huff left her when she hadn’t the strength to pull him back.

  “Shh . . .” he said against her lips, kissing her tenderly. “So impatient. Some experiments take time, you know. We have to gather information. Test the response of our subject.”

  His hand eased down her midriff, covering her navel with his palm, his fingertips resting just above the thin layer of taffeta and cambric, and the shallow rise of her mons.

  Anticipating the direction of his next touch, her body quivered with the barest amount of trepidation, her breath held captive in her lungs. But he altered course, skimming over to the curve of her waist. He gripped her hip in a tender massage as his lips nibbled softly into hers. And he reassured her endlessly until her own impatience caused her to list toward him.

  She needed more. Ever astute, Raven already seemed aware of this. His dexterous hand followed the slope of her bent leg down to her hem . . . and beneath.

  Jane started thinking again. She wondered if her woolen stockings were too chaste, too unworldly a garment compared to what he’d encountered before. Or if he thought her too small as he covered her kneecap and spanned the circumference of her thigh.

  “You’re perfect,” he whispered as if she’d worried those thoughts aloud. “So soft. I never knew anything could be so soft, Jane. I want to take a bite of you. See if you’ll melt on my tongue like freshly fallen snow. And I want to kiss you here . . . all along this silken path . . .” The tips of his fingers brushed her bare inner thighs, almost tickling, almost soothing her trembling limbs. His lips glided back and forth over hers, matching the gentle up-and-down sweeps beneath her skirts. “I’ll stop whenever you ask. But please don’t ask. At least, not yet.”

  His rough plea sent a surprising thrill through her and, giving him her full trust, she nodded in acquiescence. He reassured her with every kiss, and with every touch as his hand descended.

  She felt the first brush of her damp curls with an acuity of a butterfly’s antennae. He continued with scholarly care, cataloguing every panting breath of his subject, collecting her responses to his tender exploration. Then he cupped her fully.

  A breath staggered out of her and her knees reflexively clamped shut in shy embarrassment, even as her hips arched in invitation. The combination of movements effectively pressed him harder against her. And strangely, his breathing was now strained with erudite patience.

  The way his hand molded to her, caused her pulse to bump against the curve of his palm. He pressed back and she bit into her bottom lip on the most excruciatingly lovely ache.

  “Your hand feels quite different than my own,” she said in a hurry of hoarse nervousness. Staring up at his face, she saw his eyes close as he went still. At once, she worried she’d spoiled everything. “I didn’t ask you to stop.”

  “I know. I’m merely taking a moment to savor the vision of my naughty little professor hiking her nightdress above her hips and playing underneath the coverlet.”

  “Playing,” she scoffed but with a smile, wondering if he noticed that he’d said “my little professor.”

  “Exploratory research, then?”

  This time she rewarded him with a kiss, cupping his cheek. “Better.”

  He inhaled deeply, satisfied in some way. Mouths locked in an embrace of their own, he shifted, rising up and angling his body possessively. And with one leg drawn over hers, his finger winnowed her curls with tender deftness, cultivating her pleasure until she forgot all about being nervous or scandalized.

  All she wanted
was him. She told him this secret in the way her lips and fingers touched his face and throat, his nape and shoulders. She wanted him to feel the affection spilling from her heart in heavy gushes and flooding every vein. So she eased her knees apart and heard his murmur of approval.

  His studies resumed. He investigated the sensitive folds with expert care and long-fingered gliding strokes, teasing ripe flesh until the tips of his fingers were saturated with dew. Then he slowly delved inside the swollen seam on a hiss as if scalded by her heat.

  Undeterred, he navigated an erotic path up to the tender throbbing pearl, chasing the pulsing sensation in furtive circles. Her gasp echoed in the library. The aged leather-bound tomes were surely scandalized, blushing in red and burgundy hues. But she didn’t care.

  Her hips tilted eagerly. She wanted to skim through the lesson to reach the final exam. He eased that one clever finger away from the bud and she whimpered in protest before she understood he was following the narrow runnel down to the vulnerable opening.

  Her senses heightened in helpless anticipation.

  Then the blunt tip nudged inside and he cursed under his breath, the husky sound like a pained prayer. “You’re even softer here. Soft . . . and wet . . . and snug.”

  He punctuated every word with another nudge, knuckles edging inside one by one, stroking the inner walls. Her body closed around the gradual invasion and he shuddered, his palm pressing against the inexorable pulse.

  She was lost in the exquisite torture of it all and arched her neck to drag in a breath. In that same instant, his mouth descended to her exposed breast, overwhelming her nervous system with heady sensation.

  He feasted on her pale flesh. The tight swirling flicks of his tongue matched the firm rotation of his palm against the throbbing bud, his finger driving deep into the narrow channel. A new restlessness settled inside her, drawing tight.

  Her own explorations had never been this in-depth. Her fumblings had left her damp-skinned and frustrated. But this was so much more—a chemical reaction with perfectly measured components. Coupled with the application of this luxuriant friction, she felt on the verge of detonation.

  Tingles scattered out from her core in cascading ripples, keeping her from being embarrassed over the slick sounds of her desire. She wanted this—whatever it was—too much. Her hips bucked involuntarily, riding counter to his rhythm. And Raven captured her lips on a groan as if the cataclysm were happening to him as well.

  His finger thrust faster into the slick constriction, his palm rubbing in circles, urging her on and on until she could hear the crackle of her own blood rushing in her ears.

  Every part of her exploded at once.

  She shattered like a firework in the night sky, hanging suspended in the heavens beneath Raven’s skillful, unending caress as he dragged out every last flicker. Then he coaxed her into a slow, easy descent to the earth again.

  She went boneless onto the map table, an awed sigh floating up from her lungs in a vapor that surely sparkled. Eyes closed, she said on a sigh, “Gunpowder must be so happy when it ignites.”

  He chuckled against her throat, then dipped his head to press a kiss to her bare breast, spurring another voluptuous kick from her body. Just a small firework, but it made her smile nonetheless.

  “Is that what it will feel like for you? Will you describe it while it’s happening?”

  Slowly, he withdrew his hand, her body closing on emptiness. Then deftly he situated her clothes before gathering her in his arms. His mouth pressed to her temple. “I’m not going to strip you of your maidenhead in the library, Jane.”

  She frowned, slipping her hands inside his coat and feeling the tandem, thundering beats of their hearts. “Whyever not? It seems like a perfect place to me, and I can feel your readiness for copulation against my thigh.”

  To be sure he knew her determination well enough, she wriggled against him.

  He let out a low groan then stilled her, holding her tighter. “The door isn’t even closed, let alone locked. Aren’t public displays of this nature frowned upon in polite society?”

  “At this hour of night, a closed door would only indicate to a passerby that those within are engaging in activities that require concealment. Logically, an open door is our best chaperone.”

  Thankfully, she also knew that Mr. Miggins had retired for the night, so she’d never worried. Then again, after the kissing began, she hadn’t been thinking about anything or anyone other than Raven.

  If someone had caught them . . . the consequences would have been dire.

  While Jane had never worried that her escapades would cause her ruin—primarily because her parents were decidedly indifferent to her activities—being found in flagrante delicto on the map table would have been a different matter altogether.

  Even with her virginity still intact, she would have been sent from London. Away from her friends. Away from her family. And, most definitely, away from Raven.

  The realization sent a cold chill through her.

  She burrowed closer. “In hindsight, I suppose it was reckless. But we’ll plan the next time better,” she said against his waistcoat. “I’ll steal away from Ellie’s one evening and—”

  “There isn’t going to be a next time,” he said. “Now don’t stiffen up on me and think it’s because you’re lacking in worldliness. It isn’t that at all. In fact, it’s the opposite. I want you, which you clearly know. All I can think about is how good it would feel to lift your skirts and fill your sweet body with my flesh, right here on this table.”

  The chill evaporated under a blushing wave that trembled through her at the tableau he formed in her mind. She looked up at him, still not understanding.

  He kissed her forehead, then both of her cheeks, and against her lips he said, “I don’t want you to regret me.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “Jane, I’m not going to claim my birthright. There are still too many unanswered questions for me. It could be years before I find the answers, and maybe not even then.”

  “I don’t care about any of that.”

  “Your parents care. And you may think you don’t care, but in the future when you find some proper chap you might want to marry, you’ll remember this night and wish you hadn’t given yourself to me first.” He smiled tenderly and brushed the fine tendrils away from her cheek. “All I can give you are fireworks. Eventually, you’ll want something more. Believe me, I’ve traveled this road and I know where it ends.”

  She shook her head to argue, but a yawn slipped out. She was suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion.

  Sleepily, she twined her arms around him once more. “Don’t leave yet. I want to disprove your hypothesis.”

  “Let me play the part of the gentleman while I still can, hmm?”

  He kissed her tenderly once more, then left without another word.

  Jane lay back on the map table and closed her eyes. She wondered why Raven, who was usually so astute, didn’t realize that he’d already given her more than fireworks. So much more than she ever expected to find from a study of scoundrels.

  Chapter 25

  The following afternoon, Raven stood at the window in the Earl of Warrister’s paneled study and watched the Marquess of Aversleigh drive off in his carriage.

  “Well done, my boy,” Warrister said from behind him. “Reginald was quite impressed. Your lack of loquacity only amplified your aura of mystery, I’m sure.”

  Raven’s mouth curled into a wry smirk, not missing the earl’s heavy-laden sarcasm.

  “I didn’t know what to say,” he admitted, turning toward the bemusedly grinning old man at his desk. “You just introduced me as your grandson and the marquess shook my hand genially, without any hesitation or doubt from either of you. But you must have doubts.”

  Warrister shook his head. “I knew the instant I clapped eyes on you that you were—you are—my grandson.”

  The earl had made this very statement on their previous visits, as well. But the questi
on of certainty still rattled around in Raven’s skull.

  “People tend to see what they want to.” He hesitated, weighing his next words carefully. “Considering all the hope you must have had over the years, and then to receive a letter from your housekeeper, no one could fault you for wanting to find a long-lost grandson.”

  Warrister picked up a walnut from a dish and absently cracked it open, leaving the shards to litter the desk. “I’m neither senile, nor a romantic fool.”

  “That may be true”—Raven broke off when the earl’s wizened eyes speared him—“I mean, of course, you’re not,” he amended and gained a grunt of forgiveness. “But there’s still a few pieces of the puzzle missing. It doesn’t make sense that someone would have saved me but never bothered to come to you for a reward, like all the others had.”

  He didn’t want to hurt the man when all this came to nothing. And he knew it would come to nothing. He sensed it. There were too many questions left unanswered. Too many ways he could be taken off guard if he allowed himself to believe.

  Only children had blind faith. Like all the times he’d had the notion of running away from the workhouse to gain freedom, just to be caught unawares when he least expected. Then dragged back and punished. The brutal memories still caused a shudder to roll through him—the darkness of the cupboard, the scritch-scratch of rat claws skittering closer, and the sharp, tiny edges of their teeth.

  Without thinking, he stepped closer to the fire in the study to ward off a cold chill. Staring into the flames, he recalled a multitude of harsh life lessons when he’d foolishly allowed hope to eclipse the need for certainty. He’d never make that mistake again.

  “Believe it or not, I’ve considered the same questions,” Warrister said, drawing Raven’s attention. Then, tapping a finger to his temple, he added, “Not senile, you see. And I have a man making inquiries at that foundling home. He had a brief discussion with the beadle, a certain Mr. Mayhew. But my man said that Mayhew seemed to be a very nervous fellow. Especially when asked how his bank accounts increased substantially during the years of the French Terror. Regrettably, Mayhew eluded my man before we could get to the bottom of the mystery.”