by Lenora Bell
At least not his own.
He rubbed his chin. He should probably shave. He already had several days’ growth of whiskers and they would scratch her soft skin.
Berthold was with the duke tonight. Nick had asked him to be his father’s new caretaker, until he could find another one he trusted. Between the two of them, they would keep the duke safe from harm.
With no valet, Nick had to make do, untying his own cravat and tugging off his boots.
While he shaved by candlelight, always a tricky proposition, he thought about the night ahead.
He wiped his razor clean, splashed water on his jaw from the washbasin, and toweled himself dry.
If she was hungry, he had enough to satisfy her. He had oysters on ice and a bottle of champagne.
Strawberries and whipped cream. Rose petals.
He knew how to seduce a timid lady.
He grabbed a red rose from the vase on the mantelpiece and, with one firm twist, separated the head from the stem and scattered the petals across the silk counterpane, flinging a few on the pillows.
The door to Alice’s adjoining suite was open. He heard the sound of a pen scratching across parchment from her study.
Such a studious scholar, so absorbed by her work she didn’t even notice when Nick entered the room.
She wore the same modest gray gown with its lamentably high neckline.
No matter. He’d soon peel it off.
Tendrils of fine brown hair had escaped her chignon and she puffed them away with her breath from time to time.
She’d lit several candles, and the glow caught the gold strands in her hair and danced shadows over her face.
There was a pride in being her first lover, Nick reflected, as well as a responsibility.
No more shocking her with coarse language. She was putting on a brave act to hide her timidity. He would be gentle with her. Gentle and patient.
She would enjoy this as much as he would.
He cleared his throat but she took no notice.
He leaned over her shoulder, reading the words on the sheet.
He peered closer. Surely that didn’t say . . .
“Mouth congress?” he asked incredulously. Had he read that correctly?
Alice startled, and her pen slipped. A blob of ink puddled on the parchment. “Now see what you’ve done!”
She blotted the ink and lifted the sheet, fanning it with her hand.
He reached for the sheet but she snatched it away. “This is a lady’s private writing, I’ll thank you not to pry.”
She hastily gathered the pages into a pile.
“Is it writing or translation?” he asked, his curiosity aroused.
He must have read the words wrong. Must have been months’ progress . . . or some such.
“A bit of both,” she said vaguely, as she reordered the desk, everything in its place, pens here, inkpots there. “Third-century odes to the moon. That sort of thing.”
He dropped the subject, as there were other aroused parts of him to satisfy tonight. “You’ve been working late.”
“Is it late?” She glanced at the window. “I didn’t even notice the moon rise.” She stacked her pages with precision, lining up the edges. “Sometimes I lose all sense of time when I’m working. I was accustomed to studying through the night while my mother slept.”
When the desk was spotless and her papers tucked away in a drawer, she wandered to the window, hugging her arms around her chest. “You are pale, friend moon,” she spoke, gazing out the window at the swollen yellow moon. “. . . and do not sleep at night . . . and day by day you waste away. Can it be that you also think only of her, as I do?”
He approached her and ran his hands down her shoulders. “I’ve been thinking of you all day, Alice. Have you been thinking of me?”
“Yes, my lord,” she whispered. “I’ve been thinking of you.”
“Then come, Alice.” He held out his hand. “Come to bed.”
Come to bed.
Three wicked little words.
But they were married before God, her parents, and half of London high society.
This was a marital bed. She wasn’t breaking any rules. Still, her heart thumped almost painfully in her chest.
The idea of having an experienced rake answer all her many questions had seemed quite sensible as a solution for helping her translate the true meaning of the Kama Sutra fragment.
Oh yes, it was all quite sensible and logical until it became real.
Real marquess—really large marquess—smiling at her like Kali smiled at a field mouse before she pounced.
Smiling as if she were a bowl of cream and he’d relish licking her up.
Would there be any Alice left?
What if this experience changed her irrevocably?
Stop right there, Alice.
You’re a Lady Rake. And you wed this large marquess for a reason.
You’ve a fine, sensible head upon your shoulders.
You’re not about to lose it because a handsome marquess takes you to bed.
In his bed, all her questions would be answered. Well, perhaps not all of them in one evening. They did have several weeks of nights ahead of them.
She touched his hand, and his warm fingers closed over hers possessively.
The same crackling sensation kindled along her skin, like she were made of straw and he’d touched her with a burning torch.
As she followed him into the bedchamber, the unfamiliar sensation of the elongated silk-covered gussets shaping her midriff made her heart race even faster.
He had secrets to teach her but Alice had a secret, too.
A wanton, silken secret rustling beneath her serviceable cotton gown. Oh, Aunt Sarah, she thought. You definitely knew what you were doing.
She wasn’t accustomed to wearing anything tighter than loosely tied cotton stays. The corset thrust up her breasts and squeezed her midriff smaller.
The knowledge that she was wearing a silk corset from Paris and fine Swiss lace-trimmed garters under her plain cotton gown made her feel more in control, more seductive and alluring.
This was a garment designed with only one aim: to inflame a man’s lust.
Building fences required heavy hammers.
Writing needed a sharpened quill.
This corset was the tool Alice required to speak Nick’s language.
She could satisfy her curiosity, and improve her translation, without losing her head . . . or her heart.
Nick led her to an excessively large bed framed by beeswax candles burning in tall candelabras. Were those rose petals strewn across the pale green silk counterpane?
He’d prepared.
“So this is the notorious bedchamber of the infamous Lord Hatherly,” she said.
“This is where the magic happens, Dimples.”
“That is, without a doubt, the most enormous bed I have ever seen. It’s more of a small island than a bed. You could fit ten brides upon it.”
“That’s a few too many, even for me,” he quipped, walking to a nearby table.
“You mean you’ve had more than one woman here at the same time?” She glanced at the bed with renewed interest, nervously twirling an escaped lock of hair around her forefinger.
“Occasionally.” He caught her eye and winked. “One will do tonight.”
“The first time I met you, you had a woman on each arm.”
“Ah yes, the Satine twins.”
“They were twins?”
“Not really, they liked to call themselves twins. They came from an opera house in Paris. I bought them passage to London for one of my entertainments.”
“Perhaps you do have more in common with Eastern culture than I supposed.”
“I never kept a harem. But I don’t want to talk about my past.”
“How many women have you had here over the years?”
“Let’s not quantify such things.”
“Ten?” Silence. “Twenty?”
“What’s
in a number?”
More than twenty? Good gracious. Alice felt light-headed.
Courtesans. Bored wives. Worldly, seductive ladies with sophisticated tastes. What was she doing here? All of a sudden it seemed almost ludicrous.
She was no practiced seductress. No French opera singer.
“What happens the next day?” she asked.
“In the morning they leave. Glowing and satisfied. I’m usually a stepping-stone for them. Sharing my bed is a badge of honor, of sorts.”
“And then you forget about them.”
“The women I choose never want or expect more than a night, or at most a few weeks of diversion. They know I don’t keep mistresses for very long.”
“A revolving door of pleasure. What if they don’t want to leave?”
“I never allow a woman, or her possessions, to linger. No hairbrushes or perfume bottles. This room is strictly masculine. Look around you.”
It was a very male sort of room. One large bed, really.
“My entire household is composed of males only, if you haven’t noticed,” he continued. “We’re a sorry lot of bachelors and misfits, but we have our system. The chaos works for us. Alice,” he said softly, “look at me.”
She lifted her head and then wished she hadn’t. His eyes were so intensely silver.
“I never made any pretense of being anything other than a rake and a bachelor. Confirmed in my hedonistic, reckless ways.”
“Oh, of course,” she said lightly. “Of course I knew your reputation. That’s why I married you. You promised me one month of tutelage and then a lifetime of neglect.”
She’d only been slightly fuzzy on the details. She hadn’t thought it all the way through.
He grinned and lifted a curvaceous green bottle, unpeeled a wax seal, and wrestled with a cork for a moment.
There was a loud popping sound. Bubbles fizzed over the rim of the bottle. He poured the sparkling liquid into two tall, thin glasses.
“Champagne?” He held out a glass.
Alice had never tasted champagne before, but she was wearing a French corset and she was alone in a bedchamber with a notorious rake, so she might as well throw caution to the wind.
He clinked his glass against her glass, holding her gaze as she took a small, exploratory sip. The bubbly stuff tickled down her throat, making her sneeze.
He lifted the lid of a serving dish and uncovered a mound of glistening red strawberries. He dipped one of them into a bowl of whipped cream. “Strawberry?”
The tartness of the strawberry bursting in her mouth and the sugared cream mingled perfectly with the champagne.
She closed her eyes as he prepared another strawberry, placing it against her lips until she opened for him. He fed her another. And another.
She could become accustomed to this manner of dining.
“Now, how does this gown unfasten?” he asked, reaching for her.
She ducked away. She wasn’t ready yet for the bedding portion of the evening.
“So, this is what you do then.” She attempted a tone of careless sophistication. She ran a finger lightly over the silk counterpane. “This is your profession.”
“My profession. My raison d’être. If it’s lessons in love you want, I’m the man you require.”
Pleasure wasn’t his only reason for living. He did care for his father’s happiness and well-being. And he’d rescued Jane from a horrible fate.
He probably told himself that everything he said was true, but Alice could sense deeper waters, something he strove to hide.
“Life’s only an amusement, Alice.” He drained his glass and poured another. “We’ll drink it to the dregs, you and I. We’ll suck the marrow out of our brief amour.”
“I’m not sure I approve of sucking the marrow out of anything,” Alice said primly.
He snorted. “I could make a comment about that, but I won’t.”
To calm her swiftly beating heart, she walked away from him, exploring the rest of the large chamber.
“Feathers?” She brushed her fingers over the black ostrich feathers in the vase on his mantel. “Are you starting a millinery shop, my lord?”
He gave her an amused smile. “They sometimes serve a purpose during bed sport.”
“Really?” She touched the waving fronds. They were soft, and made her palm feel ticklish. She flushed, imagining what Nick might do with feathers.
He approached and ran his hands lightly down her arms. “Why don’t you have another glass of champagne?”
Once again, Alice slipped from his grasp.
Not yet, the nervous little voice in her mind urged. Not just yet. You need time to compose yourself.
“What are these?” she asked with puzzlement, indicating the two iron rings mounted on the wall.
“Tour’s over, Dimples,” he growled.
“Why is this wall padded?” She pushed her palm against the cushioned wall behind the rings, which looked like the padding on a divan. “What do you do here specifically?”
He stalked across the room and backed her against the wall.
He pushed her hands over her head and captured both her wrists in one hand.
“Specifically . . . I bind women with silken wrist restraints which are then threaded through these rings embedded in my wall. Then I pleasure them. It’s not my specialty, but I cater to most desires.”
Padded walls. Alice eyed the section of wall that looked like it should be the seat of a sofa. Whoever heard of such a thing? There was nothing about padded walls or wrist restraints in the Kama Sutra.
Although there were some rather perplexing descriptions of the marks lovers should make upon each other’s bodies with nails and teeth.
Alice wondered if that was something Nick liked his courtesans to do.
She regarded her nails. They were short because she kept them clipped with scissors so they didn’t catch on the parchment or impede the progress of her quill.
“Why would anyone want you to bind their wrists?” Alice asked, shocked by the idea.
He pushed her wrists higher, pinning her back against the padding with the length of his body.
“Some ladies beg for it.” His breath was hot on her neck, and his eyes, when he lifted them, shimmered with streaks of silver. “And I always give ladies what they want.”
Alice had momentarily forgotten that she was a Lady Rake, and not at all easily shocked.
“I’m sure you do,” she purred. “Maybe I’ll ask you to bind me later.”
Abruptly, he dropped her wrists and stepped away. “You don’t need any of this.” He waved toward the rings and the padding. “Simple is sometimes better. These pleasures are for people whose tastes have grown jaded. Not for you, Alice.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a sweet little innocent and you’re making me feel like the big bad wolf.”
“Sweet little innocent?” Alice huffed. “Don’t patronize me.”
“You’re not sweet?”
“I’m not that innocent.”
The silver of his eyes intensified. “Are you telling me you’ve had a man?”
“What? No!”
She’d been referring to the knowledge she’d gleaned from translating the Kama Sutra. And from her married best friends and her scandalous Aunt Sarah.
“Well then, there’s a first time for everything, Dimples.” He held out his hand. “And that time is now.”
Chapter 18
When a girl, setting aside her bashfulness a little, wishes to touch the lip that is pressed into her mouth, and moves her lower lip, but not the upper one, it is called the “throbbing kiss.”
The Kama Sutra of Vātsyāyana
Alice allowed Nick to circle her waist with his hands and gently lift her onto the edge of the high bed. She perched there, her stomach tying into knots.
He wiped a spot of cream from her lips with his thumb, and the touch set her trembling.
He stood in front of her in his shirtsleeves wit
h no cravat, while she perched on the edge of the bed, her legs dangling off the side. She was at a decided disadvantage.
He obviously preferred to control his liaisons completely.
She peered over the edge of the bed. No boots, either. He was barefoot, in breeches and a white linen shirt undone at the throat, giving her a nice view of his smooth chest.
He’d so clearly planned the view on purpose, to tantalize her.
And it was very effective. The triangle of chest made her want to see more. See everything she’d seen yesterday, when she’d watched him working in the gardens.
Ridged, sinuous lines of muscle rippling down his abdomen.
“Would you like some oysters?” he asked.
“No, thank you.” I’ll try a marquess, instead. Alice giggled softly because the thought was so very unlike her.
It must be the champagne. It had traveled straight to her head, and her belly, amplifying the fizzing sensation and making her feel reckless.
“What’s so humorous, Dimples?” he asked in a low voice, sipping his champagne and regarding her with half-lidded moonlit eyes.
“You planned all of this, didn’t you?” She swept her eyes over the rose petals, the champagne, the undone buttons. “You may as well scrawl some ink across your chest that says: ‘Eat me.’”
He choked slightly on his champagne. “Eat me?”
“That’s right. You’re a large, satisfying platter of gentleman, enticingly displayed so that young ladies will want to have a taste.”
He chuckled. “I had the same thought about you, Dimples, when I saw you that first day in your father’s study. I thought the dress you were wearing was like a strawberry tart your parents were hoping I’d want to devour.”
“My mother would be so pleased to hear it.”
“Well?” he asked, his voice roughening. He struck a wide-legged stance and squared his shoulders. “Is it working? Am I making you hungry?”
Oh, it was working.
She was probably staring at him right now in the same way he’d stared at her that day in her father’s study.
Alice drained the rest of her champagne. When had he refilled her glass?
She handed him the empty glass. “I don’t think I should imbibe any more champagne,” she announced. “I’m not accustomed to spirits, and I haven’t eaten much today.” Her head felt light and airy, like it might fly off her shoulders.