Lord knew she wanted to. The more they talked, the more she was reminded of why she’d fallen for him in the first place. They shared the same taste in books—they both liked humorous novels and plays, and they both hated poetry. Neither of them cared much for religion.
They were sort of split on the subject of pets. He liked dogs, but she’d never had any pets, so she didn’t know if she would like one or not. She was willing to try.
Best of all, he’d told her stories—of growing up with a Methodist mother and a coldly aristocratic father, of never knowing quite where he fit in with his four brothers . . . of missing England terribly while he was in India and Gibraltar and on James Island. He’d shown her part of his real self, although he’d still danced around the issue of his future.
So on the night before St. Valentine’s Day, when she caught sight of Lord Fulkham slipping out of the dining room alone, she seized her opportunity and followed him. He went down a hall, through the drawing room, and out onto one of the balconies. So did she.
She found him lighting a cigar. “Lord Fulkham? May I speak to you a moment?”
“Only if you let me smoke this while you do,” he said without batting an eyelash, as if he always got accosted by young ladies on balconies. “I rarely get to sample one of Keane’s American cigars, and I’m not about to give up the chance just because you want to chat.”
Well. The man certainly was blunt, wasn’t he? “Why would I wish to stop you from enjoying your cigar?”
“Come now, we both know that a gentleman isn’t supposed to smoke around ladies.” He cast her an assessing look that gave her pause, though he continued to smoke.
She waved her hand dismissively. “I don’t care about that. Papa was quite the smoker.” She steadied her nerves. “Anyway, what I wanted to discuss was Hart . . . I mean, Captain Lord Hartley. He told me that he does some work for you occasionally.”
Lord Fulkham turned wary. “Did he, indeed?”
When that was all the man said, she stared at him, a bit put out by the noncommittal answer. “Well? Does he do work for you?”
He puffed a moment. “Why is it any of your concern, if I may ask?”
She hadn’t expected that question, though she probably should have. Men never appreciated women butting into their affairs. And now she didn’t know what to say without letting on that she and Hart were . . . sort of courting.
When she remained silent, he added, “Never mind. It must have something to do with why he asked me all those questions the first night we arrived, about how you went from being Miss Anne Barkley to being Lady Anne.”
She was thunderstruck. Hart hadn’t found all that out from Mama? He’d learned of it from Lord Fulkham? And how had Lord Fulkham known?
The door to the balcony opened, startling her, and Hart emerged, looking decidedly concerned to see her there with Lord Fulkham. “Anne, what are you doing?” he asked sharply.
Lord Fulkham glanced from her to Hart. “We’re having a very interesting chat. Perhaps you’d like to join us.”
Ignoring Lord Fulkham, Hart held out his hand to her. “Come, Anne, we’re leaving.”
That got her dander up. “Why? What’s the big secret? I don’t understand. Do you work for him or not? No one has mentioned any connection between you two beyond a social one, yet you appear to expect something from him that seems entirely unwarranted.”
When Lord Fulkham burst into laughter, Hart groaned.
She whirled on Lord Fulkham, not in the mood for his amusement. “And if you, sir, are stringing my fiancé along with promises of—”
“Fiancé, is it?” Lord Fulkham interrupted, his humor fading to calculation. He cast Hart a considering glance. “That does explain a lot.”
Hart’s irritation with her seemed to vanish. “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?”
Now both of them were staring at her.
Oh, Lord, she hadn’t meant to say that. “Actually,” she told Lord Fulkham, “the matter hasn’t been entirely decided. I was merely trying to ensure that . . . I was concerned that—”
“Your fiancé might not make enough money in future to suit you. Is that it?” Lord Fulkham asked, a bit unkindly.
“That you might not be treating him fairly. He tends to have an easygoing nature, and sometimes people misinterpret that to mean that he doesn’t care.” She ignored Hart’s curse, going for broke. “And yes, that would affect me, not to mention our children. Because sadly, my dowry is small and I can’t bring much to the marriage, so if he has no steady income because he’s holding on to your idle promises . . .”
Lord Fulkham chuckled. “Ah, I see. You’re being practical. And protective of your fiancé, whom you assume I’m taking advantage of.”
“Yes!” When Lord Fulkham raised an eyebrow, she floundered. “I mean, no. I mean, are you?”
“This might be a good time to go,” Hart bit out and took her by the arm rather forcefully.
“Hold up, Hart,” Lord Fulkham said. “Lady Anne, what exactly did your fiancé tell you about what he does for me?”
She pounced on that. “You’re admitting that he works for you.”
“Answer the question.”
“He said he does investigations, research, that sort of thing. Rather like a law clerk.”
Lord Fulkham began laughing again. “A law clerk! That’s rich.”
“But without a regular salary,” she said stoutly. “And that isn’t fair.”
The man sobered at once. “You’re right. It isn’t.”
“That’s enough,” Hart said tightly. “We’re going now.”
This time, Lord Fulkham let them leave.
Hart waited until they were through the drawing room and out into the hall before he said, in a low voice, “I cannot believe you just did that.”
“You told me to ask respectable men about your reputation. That’s what I was doing.”
“That’s not what you were doing. You were checking up on me. Making sure I—”
“Can support a wife? Maintain a family?” She halted in her tracks. “Yes, I suppose I was. But my father is dead, Hart, and Mama is so blinded by titles and so afraid I’ll never marry that she would give me to the first fellow of rank who asked. So I’m the only one who can look out for myself. And through the years I’ve learned to be cautious. Can you blame me?”
He stared at her, the angry flush in his cheeks fading. “No, I suppose not.” He glanced down the hall, then tugged her through a nearby door into the library they’d been in the other night.
As he shut the door, she began to pace. “You have to admit that the whole thing with you and Lord Fulkham seems havey-cavey. I begin to think he might be a bit mad, from the way he kept laughing at everything. And why do you both find the idea of your being a law clerk so amusing? There’s nothing wrong with starting out as a law clerk. Plenty of people—”
He kissed her, obviously to shut her up. But she refused to let that work . . . for long, anyway, though how he kissed her did have her heart racing and her blood pumping hot in her veins and—
“No!” She shoved him away. “You will not kiss the questions out of me! This is important.”
“You’re right. It is.”
But now he seemed amused, and he had that light in his eyes that showed he clearly had other things on his mind than the very real financial implications of their future.
She forced herself to focus on those. “While I was pleased to hear his lordship imply that you do work for him, the lack of seriousness both of you showed leads me to believe that it’s not a very settled thing. Are you even sure you’re ready to take on a wife?”
All at once it dawned on her that Hart hadn’t actually made a formal offer for her hand, and she felt heat rise in her cheeks. “I—I mean, if that’s what you’ve decided you want, which I know is by no means certain, since this was only a courtship, and the week isn’t over, and you haven’t even really, well, proposed.”
With a laugh, he backed her up aga
inst the door, then braced his hands on either side of her head. “Since you’ve already declared to my employer that we’re engaged, don’t you think it’s a bit late to be denying the betrothal?”
“I didn’t intend to do that. It just . . . slipped out.”
Tonight her poufy velvet evening bonnet rose out of a tiara, and crimped curls came down to frame her face. He toyed with the curls, caressing her skin with his thumb at every turn. It made her pulse all jumpy.
“May I assume that if I offered marriage now, you would accept?” he asked in his husky voice that was oh, so sensual.
“N-not until you answer my questions to my satisfaction.”
A small frown appeared over the bridge of his nose. “You weren’t so particular when I asked the first time.”
“I was sixteen. And stupid.”
“Not stupid. In love. It’s never stupid to marry for love.”
“Then why didn’t you do so the first time?” she shot back. “Why didn’t you elope with me and risk penury?”
He sighed. “Because I was stupid.”
“No,” she said firmly. “You were cautious. And now I’m being cautious.”
Bending to her ear, he whispered, “Can’t you simply trust me?”
“I trusted you years ago, and I’m still not sure I should have.”
That barb didn’t deter him. “I’m older and wiser, and, believe it or not, in a much better financial position. So trust me to take care of you. Just say yes, Anne, and we’ll sort the rest out later.” He nuzzled her neck. “Otherwise, you’ll force me to resort to doing something drastic.”
A thrill shot through her, her breath quickening as his feathered over her skin, making it come alive. “L-like what?”
“Like showing you just how glorious marriage can be with the right person.”
Uh-oh. She had some idea what he meant by that: seduction. Or something equally exciting and wicked. Something she should not do. She should slap him, unlock the door, and stalk out. Or scream.
Or simply refuse him. Because if she did, he’d probably let her go.
But the truth was, she wanted him to seduce her at least once, regardless of what became of their “re-courtship.”
How else was she to know what it was like to lie with the man she loved? Because she did love him still. She’d never really stopped. And at twenty-seven, she was unlikely to find another man to love. For odd birds like her with odd tastes, such men did not grow on trees.
Still, she must hold firm to her rule that they not go into marriage without a decent plan for the future. She couldn’t wed him until she could trust him fully.
“Well?” he rasped against her cheek. “Yes or no?”
“I’m thinking.”
“Enough thinking.”
Then he covered her mouth with his, and she knew her time for deciding was done.
Hart refused to tell her what he did for Fulkham until he’d secured her, and how better to do that than to consummate the marriage before the wedding? He knew Anne very well, and she wouldn’t give herself to him unless she was already half-inclined to marry him. And if he bedded her, he felt sure he could coax her the rest of the way to the altar.
“Sweetheart, let me at least get a look at what I’ve dreamed about all these years,” he murmured as he turned her about and began to unfasten her gown.
“People will wonder what has become of us,” she said, though she did nothing to stop him.
“Do you care?”
She hesitated only a moment before saying, “No.”
Ah. She was the Anne he’d fallen in love with. “Well, then.”
Her gown dropped to the floor, then her petticoats. He went to untie her laces, but she balked at that, pivoting to face him. “Not my stays. It will take too long to get them back on if anyone tries the door.”
He was about to argue, when he caught sight of the tassel pinned to her corset. His heart leapt. He flicked the tassel. “What’s this?” he asked with a teasing smile.
Her cheeks flamed. “You know what it is. You gave it to me.”
“And you put it in a very intimate spot, didn’t you?” He touched it, then shifted his fingers to the delectable swells of her breasts. “Dare I hope that it means you’re predisposed to say yes?”
She tilted up her chin. “It means I like pretty things.”
In very intimate spots. Which cheered him enormously. “As do I,” he said, allowing his gaze to trail down her form.
While he drank in the amazing sight of her breasts nearly bursting out of her undergarments, he untied her shift, then pulled her corset cups and the top of her shift down to reveal her naked bosom.
He nearly came in his drawers.
“Good God,” he said hoarsely, filling his hands with the delicious mounds of plump flesh. “You are even more magnificent than I imagined.”
“And you are even more . . . naughty.” Her eyes closed on a shudder as he thumbed the peach-tinged nipples. “Oh, Hart, yes. Touch me like that . . . just like that. You weren’t the only one . . . who’s been dreaming all these years, you know.”
“Fortunately, sweet Anne, neither of us has to dream anymore.”
He knelt on one knee so he could gain better access to her luscious breasts with his mouth, then began to suck and play with each in turn, exulting in her panting breaths, her hands groping for his shoulders, her head thrown back in enjoyment. Her skin was so supple and smooth, he could dine on it all night.
And speaking of dining . . .
He lifted up her shift to stare at the delicate curls between her thighs, as bright a red as the hair on her head.
When the cool air hit her thighs, her eyes shot open. “What are you doing?”
“Looking. Savoring.” He grinned up at her. “Wondering how you taste.”
Her mouth dropped open. Then she surprised him by squeaking out, “Why don’t you find out?”
He chuckled. Leave it to Anne to be eager for any experiment, no matter how outrageous. So he tried it . . . and discovered that she tasted every bit as heavenly as he’d imagined. He could easily get used to this—the musky smell and silky feel of an aroused Anne on his tongue as he brought her to the brink of madness.
As she brought him to the brink of madness. His cock was about to explode out of his trousers, and he felt like a green lad with his first woman.
But this was Anne, soon to be his wife, and he had to make it wonderful for her. She barely trusted him about their future finances, so in this one thing he must show her she could trust him entirely. He must control himself until she found her release, or she might think twice about marrying him.
And he simply couldn’t have that.
Six
ANNE WAS GOING out of her mind with pleasure over the mad things Hart was doing to her down there. She felt all tingly inside—and out—and her heart was racing. That couldn’t be healthy.
But he went on and on, making her knees weak and her heart shiver until she thought her bones might melt and she might swoon into a puddle on the floor.
“Hart . . . my word, Hart . . .”
Still, he continued lashing at her with his tongue until he got her so hot and bothered that she started panting and pushing into him and—
“Anne, good God . . . you . . . I can’t . . .”
Suddenly he rose, and she felt bereft. “What did I do?”
“Nothing, love.” He unfastened his trousers, then dragged her legs up until he could hook them around his hips. “But I need to be inside you now, or we’ll be done before we’ve begun. Forgive me, darling.”
She didn’t know what he meant by being done before having begun or why that required forgiveness. She certainly didn’t know how he could be inside her, but it sounded right somehow.
No one had ever told her how men and women worked together in the bedchamber, but he’d put his tongue inside her, and it had felt good—very good.
But it wasn’t his tongue that slid up between her legs now. It w
as something much larger. Good heavens.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Me,” he said. “Inside of you.”
“Oh. Oh, dear.”
After they’d moved to the country, she’d seen two horses mating once. She’d asked all sorts of questions, and no one had been willing to answer her. But now it made sense. The male horse’s part had essentially been like a head fitting inside a hat, only longer and skinnier.
But Lord, his part didn’t seem to fit. And it didn’t seem all that skinny, either. “Hart?”
“Yes, love?”
“Are you sure we are . . . the right size for each other?”
“Oh yes.” He surged up inside her until she was utterly filled with him in a way that was somewhat painful yet exhilarating. “We fit perfectly.”
He started to kiss her neck and fondle her breasts, and as he continued to caress and kiss her, she got used to that part of him intimately filling her . . . to warm to the sensation of having him so thick inside her, so much a part of her, so there.
Then he started moving inside her. It was uncomfortable at first, but the more he did it, the more pleasant it became. And when he slipped his finger down between them to rub that same sensitive spot he’d been laving with his tongue before, all the frustration he’d roused earlier came to the fore.
Only this time, she could feel that it was nearing a sort of . . . something. He was driving her toward something.
She gave herself up to whatever he was doing, because he obviously knew what he was about. Every inch of her body screamed with need for him. Every scintilla of her soul wanted more. Her heart and mind were panting with the urge to find whatever it was that made her hunger and thirst and yearn . . .
“Hart,” she rasped as he thrust into her, at the same time fingering her below while his other hand caressed her above. “Hart . . .” she said more urgently, wanting something, although she wasn’t sure what.
“My darling Anne.” His voice sounded frantic as he drove into her, so hard and fierce and commanding that she thrilled to it. “You are . . . all I ever wanted.”
His words bore the ring of truth, and she desperately wanted to believe him.
The Risk of Rogues Page 5