When a Rogue Falls

by Caroline Linden

  Seduction, read the title on one page. Clothing or not? Who removes? What clothing is most suitable? There was space below, but no answers.

  Timing, read the next page. Duration of the act? What shortens or lengthens? How long does seduction last before, and what does one do after?

  Again there were no answers.

  Damn.

  Slowly Liam turned another page. Location was the next subject. Is a bed the best place? What other options? Can it be done against a wall? In the manner of animals? Benefits and drawbacks of various positions?

  But the worst, Liam discovered, was the last. Kissing was the title, and it was underlined heavily. Is it important? How does one do it well? What does it mean for the rest? Why do men avoid it? Is it a sign of true affection?

  Liam ran one hand over his face. Bollocks. He couldn’t pretend he’d never read it, because he’d rashly written on earlier pages. But he sensed Bathsheba would be both furious and humiliated if she knew he’d seen these notes on seduction, these questions she’d yearned so desperately to answer that she asked him to make love to her.

  Was it only for her writing? Liam had never really thought so, but he had to admit he hadn’t spent much time wondering exactly how much of her motivation was due to the tales and how much sprang from her own personal desires. Now . . . he wondered. She’d only known lovemaking from a callous seducer and a grocer more in search of a mother for his children than a woman to love and cherish. Bathsheba had told him from the start that she wasn’t a virgin, but Liam thought she’d only forsaken that condition on technical grounds; she’d never known passion or even physical satisfaction in her liaisons. And now he suspected no one had ever really kissed her.

  Including him.

  He surged to his feet, recoiling from that. That was not a fair comparison. He deliberately hadn’t kissed her. She said she only wanted some experience of lovemaking itself, as if a few encounters would answer all her questions about how it ought to be done. She’d never mentioned kissing, or embraces, or anything else that might hint at a deeper connection.

  He hadn’t kissed her because she didn’t want to fall in love with him, and therefore he didn’t want to fall in love with her.

  And yet . . . he’d wanted to kiss her. When he put her in the carriage a few nights ago, the thought had crossed his mind. Tonight, after he’d spent himself against her belly, imagining all the while he was driving himself inside her, he’d come within a moment of kissing her when she looked up at him with glowing brown eyes and said something about lesson two. It was so like her, and so like him, that he’d wanted to laugh and kiss her and repeat the lesson all over again. He’d had the unexpected thought that he’d finally met a woman who thought the way he did, who understood—and wanted—him as he was . . .

  Perhaps she did—too much so. It was the memory of her businesslike demeanor at the start that kept him from crossing the line. But as much as Liam told himself this had begun as pure business for him—well, pure business with a healthy dose of curiosity, and perhaps a little delight at being pursued . . . Damn it, it had never been pure business. He’d spent more time this past fortnight thinking about seducing Bathsheba than he’d ever spent on another woman.

  He looked at the little book. Did she want kissing? Did she want him to kiss her, or had that page been written before she decided to ask him to show her passion? And—come to think of it—who else had she considered? Had she asked other men and been turned down? Liam realized he was scowling at that thought; what bloody bastards would turn her down? Bathsheba was the cleverest woman he knew, as well as the most sensible; she knew when to hold her tongue and when to carry a conversation. She was quick to recognize a business opportunity, immensely practical and capable, but also liable to turn into a bold and uninhibited lover with the slightest encouragement.

  The only reason he could think of was that she was not a beauty. Well—not until a man saw her naked, hair wild about her shoulders, with her face flushed and her eyes gone liquid after a shattering climax. Something primal growled in his chest that he had been able to bring her to that point, that no other man had been a skilled enough lover to do it, but he had seen her that way. She’d been beautiful then, on his lap with her arms around his neck. Under him on the chaise, with her fingernails digging into his arse.

  He slid the little book into his pocket, suddenly afraid she would not come back next week at all.

  The week passed in a blur. Bathsheba found herself hideously distracted, unable to concentrate on her work. At times she would feel furiously angry with Liam, and resolve that she would not go back at the end of the week, nor would she ever again mention the subject to him. She’d done well enough making things up so far, and she could keep on doing so, thank you very much. Perhaps Liam would think she’d taken his advice and found some other man to do what he hadn’t. Yes, let him think that; she even wrote a draft of a letter implying that very thing, just to put him in his place and demonstrate that she was not going to tolerate his high-handed attitude at all.

  Then she threw the note in the fire, because she knew Liam and if she hinted that she’d been letting other men make love to her, he’d ask where and who and when. At best he would be annoyed that she’d wasted his time instead of finding some other fellow from the start, and at worst he’d tease her and ask horrible questions she wouldn’t be able to answer. And of course it was impossible to think of asking another man to do what Liam had done.

  She never should have started down this road. Much better if she’d asked a stranger to do it, for then she wouldn’t have to see her former lover every week and know what he looked like in the throes of passion or how his skin tasted, or how his hands felt moving over her skin, driving her wild, thrusting deep inside her. She wouldn’t be dying of anguish because she still wanted him months from now, after these lessons were over, or because her silly heart would probably always hold out some tiny hope that someday, somehow, he might fall in love with her. If she’d asked another man, some careless rake who wouldn’t remember her name the next day, her secret infatuation with Liam could have continued undisturbed and forever unfulfilled.

  She wrote another note, this time on dry impersonal business matters. This was to show that she was capable of carrying on with life even with this unfinished affair between them, and that she had not turned into a silly female mooning over him now that he’d given her a few climaxes. She read the note again, realized the entire thing could be read as an oblique metaphor for coupling, and that letter joined the first on the fire.

  After four days she realized her choices were few: let go of the whole mad idea and try to regain the comfortable business relationship they’d had before, or figure out how she would be able to spend an entire night away from home without Danny rousing the constabulary.

  She hadn’t been exaggerating when she told Liam it would be difficult. When she and Danny had set up house together originally, he had been still recovering from losing his arm. He was a year younger than she, and she had been terrified that he would give in to the melancholy that engulfed him regularly. The war was over, and he was no good to the navy with only half an arm. London was filled with soldiers and sailors, and wages were low for the few jobs to be found. It had taken very hard work, stretching every farthing to its limit, to survive the few years following Waterloo, and if not for Fifty Ways to Sin suddenly dropping into their laps, Bathsheba wasn’t sure they would have survived.

  But that long shared adversity, when it seemed she and Danny only had each other, had bound the siblings together. Just as Danny had worried she was making a mistake by breaking off her engagement with Henry the grocer, he would be violently alarmed if she disappeared for the night. If he ever discovered Liam was involved, Bathsheba didn’t doubt that her brother would call him out. Therefore, as little as she liked lying to Danny, she would have to do it, and do it well.

  She concocted a story: her childhood friend Estella, who used to live near them but who had r
ecently removed to a farm on the outskirts of London, had invited her to visit—perhaps to help with a sick child. If Danny ever asked Estella, Bathsheba knew her friend would support her story, but fortunately Danny did not like Estella much and was unlikely to seek her out. Of course, if she were going to Estella, she would likely leave early in the day, while Liam had never sent a carriage for her before eight in the evening. It was a vexing problem, and Bathsheba felt more than a little frustration that she couldn’t come and go as she pleased.

  She was still debating when Danny solved it for her. “I’ll be away tomorrow evening,” he told her at dinner the day before Liam’s week was up.

  “Oh?” Her pulse leapt, but she tried to maintain her calm. “Business?” Danny had built up a business printing select commissions, having discreetly put his name around after the runaway success of Fifty Ways to Sin. Thanks to that increased business—and Bathsheba’s secret income from Lady X—they were comfortable again, but poverty was too recent a memory for her to feel secure.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good,” she said, immediately wondering if she could use this to her advantage.

  Danny was pushing his fish around his plate. “It’s a good distance from town. I’ve been invited to dinner, and then to stay the night.”

  Her mouth dropped open at this gift from God. “You have?”

  It almost looked like her brother was blushing. “The job is a gentleman’s private library, Mr. Edmund Brown. He was a collector, and it was discovered in some disarray when he died last year. Some texts are old and must be reprinted, and most require binding. The family solicitor engaged me to bind a few, and Mr. Brown’s widow was pleased enough with my work to offer me the rest of the library. It’s a healthy commission, but will take a great deal of time. The dinner invitation is so that we may spend the day and evening assessing the scope of it.”

  “Well, it sounds like you should take it, including staying the night if necessary.” She smiled, her heart thudding fast inside her chest.

  “Yes!” He beamed at her in relief. “I shall. You won’t be worried to be alone?”

  Bathsheba waved one hand. “Of course not. Where is it?”

  “Greenwich. I may need to spend plenty of time there, as many books are too fragile to be transported to London and back.”

  Greenwich—excellent. That would make it so much easier for her to say she was going to visit a friend and give the servants the night free tomorrow. Her stomach tightened at the realization that she was actually going to do this, slip away like a wanton and spend the night with Liam.

  She said good-bye to her brother in the morning. He was clearly eager to be off, barely pausing to give her a wave before he disappeared into the traffic at the end of the street. Bathsheba closed the door and looked at the clock. Barely half past seven. She had an entire day to prepare, and she needed every moment of it.

  By eight o’clock that evening, she had had time to make daring decisions, time to talk herself out of them, time to fret, and time to recover her bravado. Mary had gone home an hour earlier, pleased to have an extra evening free, and Bathsheba was able to prepare in solitude. The whole evening felt unreal, but never more so than when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She looked a complete stranger to her own eyes.

  But that was appropriate; she was different inside as well. She had thought Liam would teach her about seduction, but she’d never guessed he would teach her about herself. After two nights in his arms, not to mention all the days in between when she daydreamed of making him fall in love with her, she was learning that she was more sensual and lustful than expected. His touch was branded on her skin, and the slightest touch of her own hands seemed to rouse all the hunger he had awoken within her. She had only asked him for seduction and pleasure, but it was impossible to deny that she wanted more—and she was willing to make a bold play in pursuit of it.

  When the coachman rapped at her door she breathed a sigh of relief. Even though she’d never sent Liam word that she wasn’t coming, part of her had feared he wouldn’t send the coach after all. She put out the last lamp and locked the door behind her, keeping her cloak close around her against the cool night air. The coachman took her small valise and helped her into the carriage as usual, and then she was off, headed toward what felt like a turning point in her life.

  Chapter 9

  This time the door of the cottage was closed, although light glowed in the windows. Bathsheba’s heart lurched into her throat as the carriage rolled down the narrow drive toward that closed door. Sudden doubt assaulted her. What if she had mistaken the matter? She’d assumed, because he sent the carriage, that Liam wanted her to come tonight—but if he were still angry from their last meeting and intended something different—

  Too late. There was no time to change her plan. The vehicle stopped and the driver opened the door. Clutching her cloak in one hand, she stepped down and took her valise before turning to the door. Her shoes crunched on the gravel, and her breathing seemed just as loud.

  The door opened and she stopped in her tracks. Liam gazed at her, his expression aloof. He was dressed as informally as before, the silk banyan over his trousers and shirt, but there was no welcome in his eyes.

  “Good evening,” she said.

  He gave a short nod and held the door for her. Bathsheba stepped inside and let him take her valise. In the moment his back was turned to close the door and set the bag down, she untied her cloak and let it fall. Liam turned and froze.

  “You said to wear nothing at all, but I thought this was quite fetching,” she said, holding her shoulders stiffly back as his gaze slid over her. She wore a nightdress, but one unlike anything else she’d ever owned. It was made of the sheerest, finest cotton lawn, with slender straps over her shoulders, a fitted bodice more meant to push up and display her breasts than conceal them, and a flowing skirt that was slit past her knees in front. It was virtually transparent and had cost more than she would have spent in a month on the butcher bill, but standing there, just shy of naked with her hair streaming loose down her back as Liam stared in open hunger, Bathsheba thought it was worth it.

  “Lovely,” he said at last. He stepped up close, so close she faltered a step backward to keep her balance. Defiantly she raised her gaze to meet his. The remote closed look had gone from his face. “And convenient,” he whispered, trailing his fingertips down her bare arms. Bathsheba shivered. His fingers encircled her wrists as he pressed her back against the wall.

  She had resolved not to question anything he did tonight. Let him teach her what he would. He knew her body better than she did, it seemed, and she didn’t want the affair to end—not yet, not ever. If it made her a coward or weak, she had already admitted that: she was weak where he was concerned. And for tonight, at least, she wouldn’t fight it.

  He pinned her hands above her head with one hand and let his other hand run down her body. He cupped her breast, scraping his nail over her nipple, already erect. She shivered, and a faint, wicked smile touched his lips. Down her ribs, over her hips his hand went, drawing up the hem of her nightdress until it was bunched around her waist. He bent his knees, and for a startled moment she thought he meant to use his mouth again, making her stand this time, but instead he caught her knee and lifted it up, up, up until she was dependent on him to stay upright.

  He released her hands. “Hold on to my shoulders,” he commanded, his voice rough and low. “That’s it,” he whispered as she clutched at him. Her knee still hooked over his arm, he reached between her spread legs and touched her.

  Bathsheba jolted. He pressed against her, his weight holding her to the wall as his fingers played on her exposed center. She had to gulp for breath; unlike other times he wasn’t easing her along but pushing her, pulling her, driving her onward. “Liam,” she gasped, her hips jerking involuntarily. “Wait—”

  “Stop?” He went still, and a spasm of longing shook her. Without a word she shook her head. He resumed, resting his
cheek against her temple and murmuring that she should scream as loudly as she pleased, there was no one to hear but him, and he wanted to make her scream, he wouldn’t stop until she did, he knew how to make her come so hard she wouldn’t be able to stop herself—

  Panting, her head buzzing, Bathsheba shook in his grip, feeling her climax building with frightening speed. He had pinned her open and defenseless to his wicked fingers but she wouldn’t have stopped him for the world. If he stopped she would have fallen to her knees to beg, so long as he gave her what her body wanted—needed—

  It hit her like a wave. She arched her neck and gave a long, thin cry of release. Liam adjusted his hold on her, yanked at his trousers, and then her cry was cut short as he thrust inside her, hard and deep and so thick, she gasped in astonishment. “Go on,” he growled, and thrust again. Again. Bathsheba saw stars even before he resumed that firm insistent stroke on what felt like the nexus of every nerve in her body. Another wave slammed into her, knocking her breathless, and another. He was panting, too, and yanked his arm from under her leg to curl around her shoulders as he drove into her, harder and faster until she was clinging to him with arms and legs and oblivious to anything but the scorching pleasure of his body moving with hers.

  On the last ripple of climax, Liam swore violently under his breath, and slammed her against the wall one last time, holding himself deep within her. Wrung out and dazed, Bathsheba could only hold on and wonder what had happened.

  After a moment, he lifted his head. “Brisk and efficient,” he whispered, his words hot on her ear. “As you wished.” She was too weak to do more than give a slight nod of acknowledgment. “Do you want lesson three now, to compare?” he added, with a swipe of his tongue on the sensitive skin beneath her ear.

  Oh God. Lesson three. More pleasure. More of Liam. He was still inside her, remarkably big. He had invaded and conquered her, almost without a word, and even though she would never admit it aloud, he had stolen her heart as well. Again she gave a slight nod.