So she’d no reason to feel guilty. Or so she kept telling herself. “What are—”
“Shhh.” His mouth touched her neck, the soft admonition barely reaching her awareness. An involuntary shudder racked her frame. “Do you still not hear them?”
“Hear what?” she murmured as quietly as she could, nothing but normal, everyday nighttime sounds greeting her ears, plus the occasional distant laugh from inside the Longfords’, the low thrum of partygoers too far away to concern herself with.
Just then, distant footsteps penetrated her eardrums but still so far off she wondered how he’d—
“Them,” he whispered and his lips wrapped around her earlobe, obliterating thought. But not action—a squeak escaping her parted mouth.
“Mmm.” His tongue joined in the play, the tip bathing the bottom of her ear, tracing the outer curve…diving inside and making her stomach feel like it received his erotic attentions, all swooping and boggled.
She leaned into him, loving the unfamiliar pressure of his large frame pressed to her tall one and how he made her feel decidedly diminutive for once, even as her head twitched from his tickly kisses.
Where else might he delve and lick? Take that talented tongue and draw forth such exquisite reactions from her? She couldn’t wait to find out.
Eyes wide open, she stared over his shoulder, lower now that he’d leaned down to lasciviously attack her ear. Pray God, they weren’t about to be discovered. The unexpected treat of having his mouth on her flesh was too wonderful, too necessary. She released her hold on the shawl and wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him closer. His male length nudged her stomach and her fingers scrambled beneath his tailcoat and waistcoat, to sink into the muscles of his back through the fine lawn of his shirt.
His tongue was still doing devilish things. It skated from her ear to caress the sensitive skin just beneath, sending streaks sparking down her neck and shoulders. A shudder trembled through her.
“Where could she have gone off to, damn that gel!”
The shock of hearing Aunt Prudence’s strident tone speaking such coarse language had Francine stiffening, her enjoyment of touching Lord Blakely evaporating.
“Stay still,” he released the skin of her neck long enough to rasp. “I do not believe they can see us.” Then he promptly returned to silently sucking on her and rubbing his form against hers. Oh, glorious heavens. Her body responded, even as her mind grappled.
“I do not have the tolerance for this,” an impatient male voice complained. “You bloody promised she would have acquiesced by now. To date, I have seen no sign of such submission. My patience grows thin.”
Beyond Lord Blakely’s shoulder, she glimpsed two shadowy figures entering the shrouded circle where only a few feet and trees—plus the bench—separated them from sure discovery.
“Be patient,” Aunt Prudence hissed, sounding incensed. “I told you, wed her, then bed her. I guarantee, her fortune will be yours, and that is several times over what I—”
“Are you positive you cannot just take what—”
“I told you, this is the only way, but you have not much time. Her majority comes and then ’twill be too late…”
Francine gasped. She recognized Lord Peterson’s peeved tones. The louse had been her most determined suitor to date and the man whose hard head had cracked the statuary. Dismayed by the interruption, irritated it was them, she tried to skirt past Lord Blakey, ready to charge after her treacherous aunt.
* * *
“Stay,” Blakely breathed as he tightened his grip on Lady Francine’s arms and straightened, holding her steadfast against the hedge when she would have confronted the interlopers. “Trust me.”
“And I told you, Prunie,” the petulant voice continued, “I at least need to have a go at her first. Got to sample what you would have me buy with my freedom and my cock, you see. Cannot consent to wedding the prissy little piece if I cannot find something worth fucking about her, now can I?”
Another strangled gasp worked its way from the lovely Lady Francine’s throat. Acting on instinct, Blakely covered her lips with his, pressing hard against her closed mouth to keep her from giving away their location. This was one starlit encounter he wasn’t yet ready to conclude.
Beyond that, his senses easily picked up on her surprise. Bugger that her annoying aunt was close by; he’d wager one of his carriages Francine would come out of this near encounter with more knowledge than she claimed before it began. And he wasn’t thinking about the physical aspects of her education either.
But by damn—lusty lions and fornicating felines, the physical aspects! ’Twas enough to go to any man’s head, and for one with a weakness for wenches this time of year?
Not a weakness, his saner self tried to assert. A need of women. A use for females. ’Tis all.
They don’t make you weak. You use them to make you strong.
Certainly. That.
Whatever.
Shoving aside the voice so he could concentrate on keeping her hidden, he gave over his every thought to the unique individual in his grasp.
Already, the delicate flavor of her skin had enticed his lips to leisurely saunter from her adorably compressed mouth over her ear and neck, savoring and staying in the moment far longer than he was accustomed to. Typically, he’d have a wench’s skirts over her head and his mouth sucking on her fancy by now.
But there was something about this one—something more than the innocence. He couldn’t quite decipher what, but then she shifted, her lips seeking his, and he quit trying to ascertain what it was about the contradictory female in his arms that held him in her thrall. Instead, he kissed her back and felt as if he were basking in the sun when she responded and her mouth yielded—opened—beneath his…
The first foray of her tongue was heaven.
So pure, so goddamn lovely.
So very fuck-worthy in his opinion. Peterson was a fool. Blakely recognized the knave. A fortune hunter if there ever was one. A card cheat too, or so he’d heard, not bothering to sit across the tables from his sort.
He pulled her closer, blocking out the others. Unexpectedly, given her earlier reticence, she kissed him harder, spearing her tongue against his—all clumsy, innocent abandon and he growled. Lost.
“Did you hear that?” her damnable aunt asked. Blakely cursed his lack of restraint.
“Just some animal, I wager,” Peterson replied in a petulant tone more suited to a bantling in full tantrum than a grown man. “I thought when you left her to me at last week’s rout, I could finally nab a taste. Instead, the bitch left my head aching for two days. Two days, Prunie! She owes me for that.” The grudged epithet made it patently clear the man planned to collect—and it wouldn’t be pleasant. “You owe me far more than I think marriage to that resisting draggletail will be worth.”
“She is an heiress, I tell you!” the girl’s chattering bore of an aunt hissed.
Damn biddy. Didn’t appreciate the jewel in her midst.
“An heiress of the first order. Plenty rich enough for you to deal with her eccentric ways for a bit. Or not…” He heard the old trot’s bosom heave in an aggravated grunt. “After she is yours, I care not what becomes of her. Just move off, away from London, if you… Before you do anything permanent.”
At that, Blakely saw red. Liquid red. The blood of these two scattered from here to Herefordshire if he let the beast have its way. If he lost control—and did what he damn well wanted—dispatching these two blights upon humanity to their own southerly afterlife. But the fresh sprig of innocence in his arms didn’t need to see that, experience his unchecked wildness in the worst of ways.
As to that, if he uncaged the monster, who knew what might happen? He’d certainly never been willing to risk it before, and he wasn’t now.
He kissed her harder, fiercer, trying to blot out the reality of the conversation taking place just a few feet beyond. Drank in her sweet essence and wished he could taste more—all of her. Imprint the u
nique flavor that slid so deliciously over his tongue.
It was a kiss of unmatched passion, aye—on his part at least; for Francine, he sensed it was rather a kiss of discovery, spared a thought to wonder at how majestically they would come together once she had experience and knew what she was about. But more than that, it was a kiss of soothing, of consolation. Of apology. Trying to erase the horrific words and sentiments she’d heard bandied about her beautiful self so carelessly.
Ah, Francine.
The little determined innocent most assuredly needed saving. How could he contemplate thus, when being with him—near him—was the complete opposite of salvation? When his very presence threatened to destroy her soul, mar her body, taint that innocence he found so beguiling?
And because worry was nothing new to him, but worry over a female, one he barely knew, was, he brought her closer to his body, pressed her along his entire length and kissed her with every ounce of authentic human male still residing in him.
“Are you sure we cannot come to an arrangement for your younger daughter instead?” Peterson piped up, sounding excited for the first time—rather than vengeful. “Now there is a prime piece I wouldn’t mind prigging. No ugly spectacles distorting her face either. I would be willing to forgive your entire—”
“You forget yourself. My daughters are not for the likes of you.”
“You dare be so derisive toward me, Prunie? You, who has amassed quite the—”
“Shht! Not here.”
Not here? You won’t discuss your debts, but you’ll blithely banter about your niece’s death?
Good God. The woman was unhinged.
And Lady Francine lived with that? Day in and day out?
His ardor knew no bounds. As he somehow aspired, with his fervent kiss, to block out the terrible reality surrounding her.
“Come now,” her aunt said so brightly, Blakely wanted to rip her to shreds all over again. “We shall check the gazebos, then return inside. Franny may be back by the dance floor by now, either dancing or watching her cousins.”
“What made you think she would be out here?” A slap sounded. “Stupid moth—blame thing flew into my eye.”
“My girls confessed they saw her amid the hedges when I threatened to cut off their pin money, but I remain appalled at…” The harridan’s voice faded as they walked from the garden. He could still hear every word but chose to concentrate instead on the woman shaking in his arms.
He withdrew his tongue, angled his mouth, gentling the pressure upon Lady Francine’s soft lips, easing himself from the haze of desire that gripped him so fiercely.
So she hadn’t been exaggerating. If anything, she’d understated her aunt’s attempts to marry her off—and secure a bloody fortune. Grasping harpy.
“I knew…” Lady Francine said in a haggard whisper, and he watched the tip her tongue flit over her bottom lip. “I…” Her words faltered and she swallowed, seizing his upper arms. “I knew she had been excessively eager to see me wed, but I thought she only wanted me out of their home, had tired of me encroaching upon her hospitality. She always says I’m a bad influence…too independent…”
Blakely hated the way her confidence had been shattered.
“How could she? To him? She cares not at all about me. I knew that. Knew it, but this? Her evil machinations are so far beyond what I ever would have fathomed…”
He hated the way the determined, confident miss of earlier had been replaced with a subdued shell.
“I had no idea…” A tear slipped from one blinking eye. “Prunie? Just how well does she know Lord Peterson? Why would she contrive to give me over to him, knowing I find him unpalatable?”
He hated more how his only recourse, in helping her, would also put her at risk.
From him.
Another tear followed the first, a glistening trail of disappointment and betrayal. He watched them track down her face and bent to wipe the tiny droplets away with the touch of his lips. “’Twill be all right, for I shall help you.”
She swallowed back the tears and smiled, a pathetic tilt of her lips that caught at his heart and made him want to pound her aunt and that filthy-minded cur she’d had with her into the ground. “You will?”
Even now, he heard the uncertainty in her tone, so at odds with how fearlessly she’d first approached him. Had that only been such a short time ago? It seemed like the minutes had slowed to seconds, time passing with infinitesimal care, excruciating slowness, as if the universe were giving him time to reconsider his rash offer of assistance. But he didn’t want to reconsider, not when such a delightful armful was depending on him, had come to him for salvation.
“Does your aunt gamble much, at parties and the like?” He stroked his fingers along her neck, back to her nape and secured them there. “I suspect she is too far gone with the Devil’s books and that Peterson’s holding her vowels. A substantial sum. And you suffer because of it.”
She bit her lips to still their trembling. “Aye. That makes sense. She often finds the card room when she escorts us to social events.”
How could he erase what she’d discovered tonight? Return that exasperatingly bold confidence to her now crushed demeanor? “Here now, tell your sham of a suitor what to do,” Blakely invited, expecting her to name a ball or event she wanted his escort to. “How may I best assist you?”
“Make me forget,” she said swiftly, staring up at him from between damp eyelashes. “Show me the pleasure you alluded to, what we just started.” The smile turned tremulous and she bravely wiped her eyes. He heard her heart pounding. “Now. Tonight. Then come to the house and offer for me tomorrow.”
She gazed at him, waiting. Challenging. Expecting him to turn her down.
Blast his soul. Lady Francine had just presented him with the one thing he wanted more than any other—herself.
Now it was up to him to decide just what to do about it. His conscience or his cock? Which was stronger? Which would allow him a modicum of peaceful slumber when he retired that night and the nights that followed?
There was only one possible answer. He drew air into lungs gone tight and opened his mouth to deny her. To deny himself. To do the right thing.
She gave a little whimper and wilted before him. Blinked fast. Tried again to smile.
His conscience or his cock?
Consigning his conscience to the Devil, Blakely decided he’d deal with repercussions later. Didn’t he always put others before himself, ever since his father asked it of him? Wasn’t he always available, guarding, keeping tabs on those who might not know how dangerous they really were?
Hadn’t he handled everything by himself, financed everything, year after year, once Phineas disappeared and Nash ran off? Wasn’t it his turn to think of himself for once?
For once…
* * *
Francine bit her tongue to keep from pleading. Why was he taking so long to respond? Had her blatant request—or hearing her aunt and Lord Peterson discussing her in such terms—given Lord Blakely a disgust of her? But no…he’d kissed her like a man possessed. Like a man beyond interested in continuing what they’d begun.
Perhaps she was mistaken? It wasn’t as though she had substantial experience, not beyond that one regretful time—or defending herself against more recent and unwelcome encounters.
She gazed up at him in the darkness and forced a casual shrug. “Disregard my hasty words. The evening grows late and I’m sure you would rather be elsewhere.”
With an edge of wildness, he cupped her face, stunning her into silence. When his thumbs pressed into the corners of her lips, she had to subdue the sudden urge to lick them. “Lady Francine Montfort, the only place I would rather be is inside your body.”
At his words, her abdomen tightened, thighs clenched and she gave a single nod.
Abruptly, his fingers left her face only to caress down her neck, over her collarbone, grazing across her breasts with the sheerest of touches, until they settled firmly at her sides. “S
tarting now.”
Oh, how wondrous!
Hands around her waist, he picked her up and shoved her back against a tall tree. “Oommph.”
“Did not mean to be so rough.”
“’Tis fine. Really.” Was that breathy voice hers? “Please continue.”
Laughing softly, Lord Blakely knelt before her and his warm hands curved around her ankles, tightened and rose, skimming the length of her legs until they reached the top of her stockings, where he paused and looked up at her.
Why had he stopped?
His features were a study of shadows. She sensed his countenance more than saw it—the intensity in his dark eyes, the concentration he focused upon her flesh. Her lower regions pulsed at his nearness, eager for his touch and the mastery she knew he’d command. Her fingers crushed her skirts and petticoats, lifted them, and his hands guided her legs apart.
“I smell your desire,” he said thickly into the silence.
Someone opened the ballroom doors, allowing laughter and light to pierce the shadows, if only just. Enough that with the moon which had risen overhead she could finally, finally see enough to do more than imagine.
This taciturn, tall, powerful specimen kneeling between her legs? ’Twas truly the stuff of dreams. Of happiness found and joy remembered.
She bunched the material in her hands, holding on to it like an anchor when his fingers eased beneath the layers of fabric shielding her Venus mound from view. She hardly dared to move when his exploring touch brushed against her curls. The contact was insubstantial, practically nonexistent.
So how was it that she felt him everywhere? Invading every part of her as the effects from such a nebulous touch careened throughout her body, slamming against every nerve ending and creating a burn so combustible, so unforgiving, she felt like crying?
He rimmed the edges of her opening, the slick sound his fingers made against her wetness unmistakable.
Ensnared by Innocence: Steamy Regency Shapeshifter Page 6