by Hope Tarr
Fear—not of him but of the tingling heat building inside her—kicked her heartbeat from a canter to a full gallop. “But I’ve kept my promise. I’ve returned the necklace. What more can you want of me?”
His brown eyes probed hers. “Don’t you know, Robin?
“N-no.” The liquid warmth of his gaze made it hard to find her tongue.
He traced her bottom lip with his thumb. “I only want one thing, but I want it very badly.”
Her throat was as dry as sawdust, the space between her thighs treacherously moist. She ran her tongue over her parched lower lip. “W-what is that?”
“You.”
Chapter Six
Anthony claimed Chelsea with a searing kiss. Her world stopped, spun, and then stopped again with each velvet sweep of his tongue. Time—seconds, minutes, hours—held no meaning. For Chelsea, reality became Anthony’s hot mouth, his teasing tongue, and his nipping teeth. And his hands…
He broke away and cleared the table with the edge of his arm. Breathless, weak, bemused, she held on to the back of her chair and watched a fortune in china and crystal fly over the sides. A wineglass overturned, spreading scarlet across the white tablecloth. The next thing she knew, Anthony’s hands were about her waist, lifting her.
He set her gently down on the table’s edge. “I want you, Robin.” His rich mahogany gaze melded with hers. “And, unless I am woefully mistaken, you want me too. Am I wrong?”
Logic and desire warred inside Chelsea. Logic urged her to deny the fierce yearning, to leave while her trembling limbs were still capable of conveying her safely away. Desire reminded her that she had been waiting a lifetime for a man like this. What could be the harm in one more kiss?
Desire won. Closing her eyes, she coiled her arms around his neck and crushed her mouth against his. Wanting to drink in the essence of him, she parted her lips, her tongue seeking.
A low rumble—part groan, part chuckle—rose from Anthony’s throat. “Ah, Robin, you are indeed an enigma.”
His deft fingers made short work of her cravat. Tossing aside the length of linen, he began to unbutton her shirt. Chelsea’s eyes flew open. She had intended on yielding to his kisses, but the look in Anthony’s eyes promised more.
Much more.
I must stop.
Dragging her mouth away, she flattened a palm against his chest and gave a weak push.
“Lord Montrose, I really don’t think we should—”
“Don’t think.” He lifted her hand from his chest and pressed a kiss into her palm. “Only feel.”
She started to answer, but his lips claimed hers, scrambling her few remaining wits. His tongue initiated a mating dance of advance and retreat that both tormented and tantalized…and left her swelling breasts screaming to be touched.
This has to end.
Against his lips, she pleaded, “Anthony…please.”
“That is exactly what I am trying to do, my sweet.”
Nibbling on her lower lip, he slid the shirt off her shoulders. A damp draft wafted through the open window over her burning skin.
“God, you are beyond beautiful.”
Chelsea followed his hungry gaze downward to her chemisette and blushed. She had outgrown the feminine article some time ago. The cream-colored silk stretched tautly across her bosom, concealing nothing.
He fitted his mouth over the point of one aching breast. Wetting the fabric to transparency, his tongue traced the outline of the dusky pink areola. Shiver after exquisite shiver rippled through her. She rocked back, clutching his shoulders, drawing him closer. As though reading her thoughts, he took the taut bud between his teeth and gently bit down. The warm, tingling sensation was immediate. It shot to the secret place between her legs, triggering a strange throbbing. Wanting more, she threw back her head, arching herself against him. He complied, his tongue snaking salaciously over her other nipple, bathing it, too, in sweet heat.
“God, I can’t remember ever wanting a woman as I want you.” His voice was a ragged whisper against her breast.
Caught in the maelstrom, Chelsea scarcely noticed when he gripped her knees, parted them, and stepped boldly between. The proof of his passion, hard and hot through his breeches, pressed against her inner thigh.
Anthony undid the buttons at her trouser front. The panel fell obligingly open, and a slow smile spread across his face.
“Definitely a true redhead.”
He slipped a hand inside, his thumb massaging the mound of springy, russet hair.
The tingling heat building between Chelsea’s thighs was rapidly becoming a bonfire, the throbbing keeping pace with each frenzied palpitation of her heart. Dizzy, she tightened her hold on his shoulders and anchored her legs to his hips.
His hand wandered lower. Parting her inner lips, he slid one finger inside. Chelsea’s breath ended in a gasp.
Now. I have to end this…now.
He must have sensed her retreat, for when he entered her again, his finger imitated the teasing of his kisses. Slow, undulating movements promised to reduce her to a puddle on the table, with no more will or substance than the spilled wine.
And suddenly she no longer cared.
Each deft stroke skittered a delicate shudder down her spine and stoked the fire in her belly. Her nails bit into his broad shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped marks on the damp linen. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, a warning bell sounded, telling her that this act was only a prelude to a more intimate possession, but she was too far gone to heed it.
He withdrew. His finger spun sticky, spiderweb patterns on the inside of her thigh. “You want me as much as I want you. The honey on my fingers tells me so, but I want to hear you say it.”
Pride, like her shirt, lay crumpled about her. Even so, an obstinate voice urged her to deny his lordship this one satisfaction.
His demand was a husky whisper against her throat. “Say it.”
She was a novice in love play but she knew that, if she denied him this, he would stop and send her away. Exactly what she should want and yet…
He lifted his face to hers, his dark eyes daring her to dissemble. She no longer wanted to. No, what she wanted was to draw Anthony inside her and hold him there forever. She wanted to give herself to him, whatever the cost. She wanted…God, she wanted…him.
She reached for his wrist. Beyond shame, she pressed his palm against her open trousers. “Y-yes. I want you.”
His laugh was no less triumphant for its softness. “Then, milady, we are of a mind.”
He parted her once more, the whorls on his thumb grazing her sensitized flesh. She moaned and rolled her hips, seeking some deeper satisfaction. He sought out the small, hidden bud of desire and flicked over it once, twice…
The tight knot of tension building inside Chelsea uncoiled. She cried out. Wave after wave of molten pleasure crashed over her until she thought she would shatter into a million pieces like the china scattered at their feet.
Finally the last tremor quivered through her, leaving euphoria in its wake. In the grip of a delicious languor, she dropped lead-weighted legs from Anthony’s waist and sagged against him. She was beyond modesty or pretended indifference; there would be time aplenty for self-recrimination once her brain resumed functioning. For now, she was content to savor the moment. Eyes closed, she laid her cheek against the corded muscles of his neck, reveling in the sandpaper roughness of his budding beard and the wicked sensation of her breasts flattened against his hard chest.
Anthony was the first to break their embrace.
“I’ll not last long this time ’round, my sweet, but I promise there’ll be plenty more times ere morning.” His hand went to the front of his trousers.
Startled, Chelsea opened her eyes. Her breath caught in her throat. Although life on a farm had given her a general idea of what happened between men and women, nothing had prepared her for the sight of Lord Montrose’s swollen shaft surging out.
He took her hand and laid it intimately along the l
ength of him. “Take me inside you, Lady Robin. I will be an inmate of Bedlam unless I can bury myself in your sweet heat.”
Chelsea’s fingers curved gently around him. The taut flesh was silken smooth and resonant with warmth. Curious, she slid her hand up and down.
Anthony groaned and thrust against her hand. A small bead of moisture dampened her palm. Fearing he was bleeding, she slackened her hold. “Are you hurt?”
He gave her a weak smile. “No, but I am in the grip of a very sweet torment. At this rate, I definitely will not last much longer.”
Uncertain of his meaning, Chelsea wondered if he might be feeling as helpless as she had a moment ago. Experimentally, she flicked her thumb over the engorged tip.
Eyes rounded, Anthony reared back. “Oh, God, Chelsea!”
Anthony looked down in horror. Chelsea jerked her hand away as though she’d laid it atop a bed of hot coals. A good thing, really, for he’d almost spilled his seed. Even so…
This can’t be happening. Not to me.
“Why you filthy, lying cur!” Bracing both palms on his chest, she pushed, this time with determination. “How long have you known?”
Senses reeling, Anthony backed away just in time to avoid the vicious upward jab of her knee.
She stared down at her chemisette, transparent where he’d suckled. “Oh, God!”
Her shirt dangled from her waist. She yanked it up, sprang off the table, and headed for a shadowed corner.
Thoughts racing, he demanded, “Known what?”
Watching her struggle to right her clothing, he willed his head to clear. He hadn’t experienced such an overwhelming sense of disorientation since the age of eighteen when he’d smoked his first—and last—opium pipe at the urging of his school chums.
She gave him her back. “My name.” Fumbling with buttons, she glared at him over one shoulder. “Have you known all along?”
The fog lifted. “Damnation.”
He raked a hand through his hair, cursing himself for a blundering idiot. What the devil’s come over me? He tucked his throbbing member inside his trousers. Earlier he’d bared his soul to her and now…this. Even in the throes of passion, he always maintained mastery over his reason—and his erection. Until tonight.
“I found out only this afternoon,” he admitted. He’d intended on confronting her with his discovery eventually, but not yet. Not like this.
Shirt buttoned and eyes flashing, Chelsea faced him. “I suppose you set one of your servants to spy on me?”
Anthony shook his head, willing the desire to ebb from his still-hard body. “You are not the only one capable of stealth. A trip to Murdock’s and a bit of research into the annals of Upper Uckfield revealed that there was indeed a One-Eyed Jack who worked the road to London…more than thirty years ago.”
Fear filled her eyes. The last time he’d looked into wide, frightened eyes, he’d…Perspiration broke out on his forehead. Forget the war, Anthony. He clawed his way back to the present. With patience and cunning, his plans for the evening might yet be salvaged.
“I venture to say that great hulking specimen accompanying you the day you waylaid my carriage was the original?” At her miserable nod, he continued, “The local gazette reported that One-Eyed Jack was apprehended but had the good fortune to escape hanging. Instead, he was released into the custody of the parish magistrate, a reform-minded squire named Bellamy. Your father, I collect?”
She inclined her head. “With a bit of patience and training, Jack made a truly splendid if somewhat unconventional butler.” Her gaze narrowed. “That still doesn’t explain how you discovered me.”
He shrugged. “From there on, it was easy enough to put two and two together. I came upon your father’s obituary. A certain ginger-haired daughter named Chelsea was mentioned as a survivor, along with a son, Robert. The brief description hardly did you justice.”
His gaze skimmed her. Even wearing men’s clothes and brisling like an angry cat, she was exquisite. And vibrant. Just looking at her, he felt the cold place inside his chest begin to thaw.
“Flame-haired vixen suits you far better.”
A rosebud blush climbed her delicate cheekbones. “But I was dressed as a man. It could just as easily been my b-brother playing the part.”
A pained look crossed her face, and he wondered what, if anything, her stammer signified. Tomorrow morning, when she awoke in his bed, he would remember to ask her, but at present, there was a pressing matter to resolve.
His need still upon him, he replied, “You have the redhead’s fair complexion, and the charming blushes that go with it.”
His eyes fell to her open trousers. Chelsea’s cheeks flamed. She ducked her head and began struggling with the fastenings. The knowledge that she was just as shaken as he enabled him to regain a measure of mastery over his own roiling senses.
“Here, allow me.”
He crossed the room and stepped in front of her. Encouraged when she didn’t shrink away, he went down on his good knee. He fastened the first trouser button, his knuckles deliberately brushing the damp curls.
His intimate touch mobilized her.
“How dare you!” Hands flying to his shoulders, she shoved him. Hard.
Desire weighing uncomfortably between his legs, he considered pretending to lose his balance and, falling backward, taking her down on top of him. Looking up into her ferocious face, he decided the ploy held too great a risk. In her present mood, she might very well kick him in the face. Or lower.
Gaining his feet, he asked, “As I have a vested interest in knowing, pray tell me, do you always attack your lovers after mating, like some sort of avenging black widow or praying mantis?”
She backed into the wall. “We were not…mating,” she sputtered. “Besides, if I’d really wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t have missed when I kneed you.”
“I shall bear that in mind for the future.” He was so hot that he was sure the blood must be melting his veins.
“There shall be no future for us, Lord Montrose, so you needn’t put yourself to the effort.” Hands trembling, she struggled to retie the crumpled ribbon dangling from the tip of one silken curl. “You are never to come near me again, do you understand?”
For the span of a heartbeat, anger surged through Anthony. Mastering it, he answered in a calm voice, “Perfectly, although I could point out that it is you who are in my home.”
“Not for long.” With a huff, she turned and marched toward the door.
“As you wish but there’s no point in risking lung fever.” He glanced to the open window where droplets of rainwater now dotted the sill. “At least permit me to escort you home.”
He would instruct Masters to take the long route to wherever it was that she lived. Once her anger cooled, they’d finish what they’d begun in the swaying depths of his carriage. After the first fast, frenzied coupling, he’d bring her back here. Atop satin sheets, he’d make love to her slowly. Gently. Thoroughly.
“Not bloody likely.” She turned the knob, opened the door, and stalked out into the hallway.
Thwarted desire gnawed at the edges of his patience. “Don’t be stupid. The London streets at night are no place for a woman alone. Any number of mishaps could befall you, all of which you would find exceedingly unpleasant.”
“I’ll take my chances.” She threw open the study door.
She collected her hat from a chair seat, and then started for the window. Anthony came up behind her.
“Chelsea, be reasonable.” He laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. “This is madness. If you won’t allow me to see you home, then at least stay the night. This house has seven bedchambers. You may have your pick of any one of them.” Including mine. “You can go in the morning.”
“Lord Montrose.” Her voice could have frozen fire. “You promised that you would allow me to leave after I returned the pearls. I have honored my promise.” She stared at his hand, still gripping her shoulder. “I only ask that you honor yours.”
“As you wish.” Soldiering had taught him to recognize when a strategic retreat was in order. He dropped his hand and backed away. “At least leave by the front door.”
“No thank you.” She strode to the window and reached for the moored rope. Refusing to look at him, she took hold of the swinging hemp and climbed outside, clearing the ledge.
He raced to the window. Palms resting on the sill, he leaned out, rain dampening his face. Watching her disappear into the swirling mist felt like the hardest thing he’d ever done.
The gentle shower was a steady downpour by the time Chelsea gained the alleyway. Straining to see through the peculiar yellow fog that had settled over the city, she held her hands in front of her and hurried through the maze of alleys, praying she wouldn’t lose her way. The rain that had been collecting in the brim of her hat suddenly overflowed, dumping its contents down her shirt collar. Cursing, she removed the useless article and threw it onto the cobbles, grinding her heel into the crown.
“Damn you, Anthony Grenville! Damn you to hell.” The crack of thunder overhead nearly swallowed her choked cry.
What had she been thinking, accepting Lord Montrose’s invitation to dine? No wonder he’d assumed she was no better than she should be. Nor had her behavior proven otherwise. She’d come close to submitting to him completely—and on his dining room table, of all places! Her mother’s spirit must indeed be watching over her. If he hadn’t called out her real name, she would be ruined by now.
It was tempting to blame her wanton conduct on the wine, but, in her heart, she knew that her host’s potent charm had been the true intoxicant. Well-traveled, intelligent, and witty, Lord Montrose was one of the few men she’d known other than her father whose conversation extended beyond fox hunting and the latest agricultural methods.
But she was attracted to more than his mind. Handsome, strong, and passionate, Lord Montrose—Anthony—embodied every knight in shining armor her romantic heart had ever conjured. He was Lancelot, Troilus, and Romeo all rolled into one. And, after a year of being solely responsible for managing a ramshackle estate—and an unruly younger sibling—it had been heaven to surrender her self-control. To let Anthony kiss and caress and tease her until she was incapable of forming a cogent thought.