He studied her and seemed dubious. She avoided his gaze and glanced at the stately buildings lining the street.
“We’ve taken a wrong turn,” she said and realized that they were in Mayfair, where he lived.
“I thought a midnight tea in order.”
This was highly irregular and improper. She did not want to have tea at his townhouse. In her mind, she had bid him good-bye for the final time.
“I have other engagements,” she objected.
The curricle felt small, and she occasionally bumped against his arm.
He raised his brows. “At midnight.”
“Other intentions,” she rephrased.
“At midnight,” he repeated.
She screamed inside her head. The man could not be more vexing!
“Regardless, it is most presumptuous of you to assume that I have the time and inclination to take tea with you,” she asserted.
He pulled the curricle in front of his townhouse. His stable boy met him to take the horses and vehicle to the back.
Stubbornly, she remained seated. “You told me you would see me home.”
“And I shall. After tea.” He offered his hand.
“Why not now?”
“Because we’re having tea.”
She clenched her teeth. “I would prefer to go home now.”
“Pray, do not make a scene, Miss Herwood.”
She looked to the stable boy, who watched them curiously. Relenting, she took his hand and allowed him to assist her down. She noted the encompassing warmth of his grasp. The man had remarkable hands.
Cease and desist, she told herself. She pulled at her hand, but he held it a few beats longer than necessary.
If he expects a willing and cheerful guest, he will be quite mistaken, Deana told herself. She intended to be done with tea as quickly as possible.
Midnight tea indeed.
She followed him inside and into the drawing room where she had sat over a year ago. Nothing about the room had changed. She remembered the bronze oil lamp above the fireplace and the tapestry of Rati, wearing a golden headdress, arms stretched with a bow and arrow, astride a many-hued parrot. She flushed at the significance of the Indian goddess of love and carnal pleasure.
“Have a seat, Miss Herwood,” he indicated.
She sat at stiff attention upon the settee without removing her bonnet or releasing her reticule.
“Do you often keep your servants up at such late hours?” she asked when a footman set down a tray upon the table between them.
Seating himself across from her, he smiled at her attempt to censure his treatment of his staff.
She helped herself to the tea and biscuits as it was a useful occupation to avoid conversing with him. Why had he brought her to his place for tea? Was he bored and in need of a companion? Did he have an…urge…when he saw her coming out of the gaming hall and no one else to seek in the middle of the night? She found herself wanting an answer to her questions. She looked over at him to find him appraising her.
“How is Lady Isabella?” she asked the question she had not wanted to ask.
“I understand she is well and currently in Scotland with family.”
Ah. That was why he was in need of company. She sipped her tea and waited for him to speak, but he only continued his observation of her.
“This is a delightful tea,” she said.
“It is a chai blend of cardamom, nutmeg and black tea from the Himalayas. You should try it with milk.”
He picked up the small vessel. She held out her cup and saucer. He held her saucer still, his hand upon hers in the process. Her heart palpitated an uneven rhythm.
“Delicious,” she acknowledged, then proceeded to finish the beverage quickly to hasten the end of the tea.
“More?”
“No, thank you.”
They sat staring at one another until impatience and insecurity forced her to her feet. She walked around the room, pretending to analyze the décor, conscious of his gaze upon her.
“How long do you intend on keeping me here?” she asked, feeling more at ease now that she could more easily avoid looking into his eyes.
“Do you mean to imply that I am holding you hostage?”
“I do.”
“Is my company so distasteful to you?”
She frowned. Though he did not mean it, it was an unfair question. “Not at all, but I am quite puzzled as to why you wish for mine.”
“Do you really?”
“Yes, our arrangement had been executed and finished.”
“Would you care for another arrangement?”
She looked at him sharply, then returned to looking at the walls, stopping before the tapestry of Rati. She felt angry. She had put him out of her life, had met another man with whom she might have a chance, and he had the gall to reappear and ask her for another arrangement?
“Lord Rockwell,” she said, fueling her courage through anger, “you must disavow yourself of this notion that I am always at your beck and call, available to you as you wish. Despite what our past arrangements have been, I am not a whore. Circumstances compelled me to become one, but I have no interest at the moment in renewing that state. There is no sum of money that you can offer that would make me amenable to—”
Feeling his presence, she whirled around. In the next instant, his mouth was over hers. She struggled, but his arm was about her, crushing her to him without give. She pushed against his hard body. He circled his hands about both her wrists and pinned them above her head as he pushed her up against the wall. His mouth assaulted hers with frightful force and suffocating breadth. She panicked that he might try to impose his will upon her, though she would never have thought him capable of such an offense—no, she panicked because her body was responding to him.
“Holding her wrists in one hand, he untied her bonnet and tossed it to the floor. She closed her eyes against the onslaught, trying to pick up the fragments of her anger as her traitorous body succumbed to the longing she had hitherto kept at bay.
“We should not,” she mumbled, to herself as much as him.
His hand went to her spencer, tearing it open. The buttons clattered to the floor. She twisted against his grip.
“How dare—”
“Ask me to take you,” he demanded. She stared into his molten eyes. Good God, he wanted her. The realization heated her loins and caused her to ache.
But he will be back to Lady Isabella tomorrow.
“Have you not heard a word?” she cried in anguish.
“Do not keep me waiting much longer, Miss Herwood.”
Her legs threatened to liquefy. She had always found his voice sensual, the sound of her name upon his lips wickedly enticing. How was it she could not resist him?
He turned her head so that he could access her lips. His mouth was more controlled this time, probing and commanding. With his lips and tongue, he enticed hers into a sensual dance. Desire pooled low and hot in her abdomen. He released her head. His mouth trailed across her jaw, down her neck, and to the edge of her décolletage. His hands grasped the spencer and pulled it down past her shoulders, pinioning her arms. As his mouth continued to caress her about the neck, he pulled down the bodice her frock. She gasped as the fabric tore a little to accommodate. He went for her stays next.
“They lace in front,” he noted with approval.
With her back still pinned to his chest, he reached around her bosom and unlaced the ribbons with ease despite his hindered view. He pulled the stays down her arms as well. She now had three layers of garments—her spencer, frock, and stays—locking her arms uncomfortably to her body. He palmed both breasts through her shift and rubbed her nipples through the cotton fabric. They pressed against his hand. He rolled and tugged at the points of flesh between his thumbs and forefingers. She writhed against him. As she became more and more aroused, his touch became harder. The attention was devastating. She did not know whether to bend away or arch her back further into him. The ache bet
ween her thighs throbbed angrily.
He pulled her atop him as he sat down on the sofa. After positioning her upon his lap, he gathered her skirts to her thighs. He parted his legs, forcing hers open. With her arms pinioned, she felt unbalanced and had to concentrate to stay atop him. Reaching under her skirts, he found the moisture between her thighs.
“This pleases me, Miss Herwood,” he said, swirling his fingers in her wetness.
She groaned. Her body began perspiring. An agonizing tension had built within her, and only he could release it.
“In due time,” he murmured as if reading her mind. He began to rub and torment that rosy nodule of flesh between her legs, his gaze intent upon her reactions.
He pulled down her shift to bare a breast, then took it in his mouth. She nearly toppled from his lap as he sucked her tit while toying with her other highly sensitive nub. He put a hand to her hip to hold her steady. Moaning, she writhed at the pleasurable assault. She had been right to submit to him, her body signaled. She had already done so in the past. One more night was of little consequence and could only bring such delights as she was unlikely to ever experience again.
His mouth sucked, his hand fondled with increasing vigor. The pressure within her was just about to reach the boiling point when he released her. As if she had been hit with a wall of fresh air, she inhaled at the sudden deprivation. He put her back on her feet.
“Shed your clothes,” he instructed as began to unloosen his cravat.
Eager to return to her earlier progress, she struggled to pull her arms free. It was no easy deed for the garments on top had secured the ones beneath. Lord Rockwell, also disrobing, had a much easier time as he cast his cravat onto the back of the chair and began to unbutton his silk brocade waistcoat. As she struggled with her attire, she found herself mesmerized by the calm with which he undressed, revealing a broad and chiseled chest, arms and torso. She drank in his splendor.
“Let us not tarry, Miss Herwood,” he said. “If I grow too impatient, I shall be tempted to tear the clothes from you.”
Doubling her efforts, she wiggled and jumped, her unrestrained breasts bouncing with the exertion, but the tight sleeves of the spencer were caught.
“Yo have ten seconds, Miss Herwood. One…two…”
Straining one hand, she reached for the cuff of her spencer.
He cupped the side of a breast. “Three...four…five.”
With a hasty yank, she pulled the sleeve and the spencer slipped from under the sleeve of the frock and the strap of the stays.
“Six…seven…”
Quickly she shimmied her arms out of the garments and pushed them to the floor. Her petticoat and chemise quickly followed.
He smiled, though she found no amusement. Nevertheless, she said nothing for all thought scattered to the wind when he lowered his head and kissed a nipple.
. He flicked at it repeatedly with his tongue, and she groaned as the fire in her belly stirred. . He sat back down upon the sofa and had her stand astride him. To her delight, he undid his front fall and pulled out his very solid arousal. She hoped he would let her take possession of him soon. He rubbed himself slowly so that his erection lengthened to its limits. He pointed it between her thighs.
“Bend your legs.”
Yes!
She lowered herself.
He rubbed the bulbous head along her slit. It felt wonderful, but she wanted him to touch the deepest part of her. He pressed his shaft at her pleasure bud, and she closed her eyes to further relish the pleasure. Back and forth he worked his rod. Coated in her wetness, it slid easily along her. Beautiful, delicious sensations fanned from below her belly. But squatting over him was an awkward exertion, and her legs soon began to tremble.
She grunted as beads of sweat formed along her brow. “My lord—”
“Not yet,” he said.
The labor required to stay in position distracted from her ascent toward orgasmos. He increased the rubbing, making her quiver in delight. But her legs threatened to buckle beneath her. Her legs gave way. She sank onto his lap, sheathing him with her body. The feel of him inside of her was nothing short of wonderful. For a second she didn’t care that she had not succeeded in keeping the position he wanted. She looked at him through lowered lashes, but instead of a frown, she saw his eyes gleaming.
“Make yourself spend,” he urged.
She worked her hips, trying to push him as deep inside her as she could. He reached a hand to toy with her nipple. His other hand found that nub of flesh between her folds, slick and engorged. The triple stimulation, his hardened desire inside her, his thumb at her clitoris, his digits tugging at her nipple, combined to send her over the edge. She would have convulsed right off his lap if he had not caught her hip. Shuddering violently, she fell against him, her hot and sweaty body against his. She murmured an oath, then realized she had spoken it aloud. Recovering from her raptures, she found him stroking her back tenderly. She stirred slightly and felt he was still hard inside of her. Oh dear, that meant she was not finished.
“Pleased?”
The strange inquiry made her look at him. He was gazing at her as if searching her face for something.
“A little,” she teased, “but I should be pleased more if you also spent.”
He grinned. “On your knees then, my good girl.”
She settled between his legs and opened her mouth willingly, wanting to give him the same pleasure he had provided her. He slid his rod inside of her. She tasted her own wetness upon him, unsure of how she regarded her own flavor. With her arms still bound behind her, she could not exert herself as well upon his shaft, so he fisted a hand in her hair and guided her mouth. She tried to take him down her throat as much as possible and managed to suppress most of her gagging reflexes.
His lordship’s eyes closed, and he grunted his enjoyment.
“Harder, my love.”
She obliged until her cheeks hurt. He tensed further, and she sensed his end was near. He bucked his hips at her, and with a roar, he shoved himself deep into her. Warm, tangy liquid filled her mouth. She swallowed to prevent from choking as he pumped his seed into her. His legs shook, and his fingers curled in her hair. Pleased that she could cause his surrender, she licked her lips after he had pulled himself from her. He knelt down before her and kissed her. And this, being claimed by his lips, was as divine as anything. She returned the pressure, wanting to stake her own claim.
After releasing her, he buttoned the fall of his trousers. He swept her into his arms and lay her upon the sofa against the pillows. Laying beside her, he fitted his hand between her thighs. His languid strokes felt pleasant, but she wondered that she had the wherewithal to go another round.“Have you thought of Chateau Follet since your departure?” he asked.
Many, many times.
“Often enough,” she replied.
“And what memory strikes you in particular?”
She thought of all the times she had been with him. How could she pick a favorite among them? For days afterward, she had relived each one twice over.
“They were all of them an experience, to be sure,” she said. “Certainly the night with Lady Isabella and Lord Devon was beyond the pale.”
“In what manner?”
His fingers had an intoxicating effect, putting her at ease while strumming a luscious tension.
“What Lord Devon did…”
She felt him stiffen. He rose. No doubt the mention of his rival did not sit well with him. She chastised her carelessness.
“Does Lord Devon compel your ardor?” he asked.
She knit her brows. “Pardon?”
“He had taken a fancy to you,” he noted as he swirled a digit along that most sensitive bud between her thighs.
Pleasure rippled from there.Did you fancy him at all?”
How could he think such a thing? Devon was nothing compared to Rockwell. Was the Baron possibly jealous?
“Why do you ask such a thing?” she returned. “I felt quite
sorry for Lady Isabella and thanked God that I had the situation I did.”
He seemed to relax and continued his delicious ministrations. She emitted a soft moan.
“You are in not in need of anything, Miss Herwood?” he teased, running a finger along the length of her folds.
She groaned, surprised at how quickly lust had flared. I am in need of you.
“Do you wish me to beg for it, my lord?” she asked more flippantly than she intended.
His eyes steeled. “Would you?”
“If you wish it, my lord,” she replied more sincerely. He dipped a finger into her. She closed her eyes. Yes, she wanted him inside again.
“Please, my lord,” she began.
“Please, what, Miss Herwood?”
She stared him in the eyes. “Please ravish me, my lord.”
His gaze aflame, he withdrew. Slowly—much too slowly—he kicked off his boots, tore off his stockings, unhinged his braces, and left fall his trousers. His erection stood at proud attention. Kneeling against her bottom, he rubbed his shaft along her. He jerked himself against her clitoris and her folds until she was near to spending. Retreating, he carressed the expanse of flesh before him from the underside of her thighs to her buttocks and across her hot, wet folds. She purred. Her body knew no shame before this man.
“Take me, my lord,” she implored.
“We were deprived our final night at Chateau Follet,” he said, halting.
She strained for his hand to fondle her again, as he had before. “Yes.”
“A pity.”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything you wish we could have done, Miss Herwood?”“I would that you could have taken me till I was senseless.”
He frowned and she wondered if she had responded too brashly. But in the next instant he was upon her, plunging deep into her. She cried out at the depth of his penetration. She welcomed every ounce of force. Her body, tormented with lust, in need of the strongest relief, wanted the pounding, wanted him, wanted to drive out all possibility that there would remain some small grain of unsatisfied desire for him to taunt later.
They reached the pinnacle simultaneously, her cries mixed with his anguished grunts as their bodies bucked and shuddered against each other. Her body felt awash in warmth, throbbing, grasping. He trembled atop of her, pushed his hips at her a final time, and collapsed against her. They took in large, heaving breaths, their perspiration mingling, as they lay joined together.
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