The Perfect Rake

by Anne Gracie

  “Yes, it is.” He kissed her as she tugged at it.

  “Very well cut. And the fabric is very fine.” She draped the coat over the back of the chair and returned to his waistcoat. “This waistcoat is very nice, too. Quite elegant. Beautifully embroidered.” What did you say to a man when you were taking his clothes off?

  “Yes, it is a nice waistcoat.” He smiled at her with such a tender look in his eyes that she blushed even more.

  She removed it and surveyed his shirt. It was tucked into his breeches. His breeches. Oh heavens! She swallowed, then grabbed fistfuls of his shirt with determined hands and began to tug.

  “It’s a lovely shirt, too, isn’t it?” he said conversationally. “Very fine linen.”

  There was a thread of amusement in his voice. She looked up at him. “Are you making fun of me?”

  His eyes were dancing. “Never, my love. Never.” He drew her close and kissed her thoroughly. “I love your conversation when you’re nervous. But indeed, I promise you, there is nothing to be nervous about.”

  “I’m not nervous,” she lied as she pulled his shirttails free.

  He kissed her again. “I am.”

  She stared. “But you’ve done this hundreds of times!”

  He smiled ruefully. “Not like this. And never with you, my love. With you, everything is different.” And in case she doubted, he repeated it again.

  “Everything.” It almost sounded like a promise.

  She could not quite catch her breath. Emotion filled her throat. He pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it carelessly aside. He was bared to her gaze, and she could not stop looking. His skin was golden in the candlelight, shadows and angles, the shift and curve of muscles as he moved.

  He was beautiful.

  She reached out and touched the skin of his chest, running her fingers over the warm planes, learning his texture. She had not known men could be beautiful. A hollow ache stirred deep within her.

  He kissed her fingers, bent and swiftly removed his breeches. She averted her eyes hastily, shyly, but could not resist one quick glance. He was wearing drawers underneath.

  He caught her glance. “Nice linen drawers?”

  Her response was halfway between a laugh and a sob. His gentle teasing dissipated the raw tension inside her as nothing else could. She shook her head helplessly.

  “Come here,” he said softly, and she came to him in joy. He kissed her long and deep and she kissed him back with everything that was in her heart.

  His hands roamed over her, creating the most spectacular sensations through the fine linen nightgown, leaving her hot, shaky, and breathless.

  She pressed against him, wanting more. His chest was lightly furred, and the texture and feel of it enchanted her. She rubbed her hands through it, wanting to feel him against her, skin to skin. Yes, that was it, what she wanted, skin to skin. She began to drag impatiently at the buttons of her nightgown. His hands joined hers, and in seconds her nightgown, too, had joined the pile of discarded clothing.

  He stared at her. Feeling suddenly self-conscious, she sucked in her stomach, and her hands moved to cover her nakedness. He reached out and stopped her, saying in a deep, husky voice, “You are beautiful, my Prudence.”

  She stood there, his gaze warming her, dissolving her doubts. She ought to feel ashamed, standing so immodestly naked before him. Yet she didn’t. She felt…beautiful. Proud. Desired. And a little bit exposed.

  She glanced at his drawers. In seconds he had removed them, and for a moment she could only look him in the chest. Slowly, slowly, her eyes dropped, and it was her turn to stare.

  Not beautiful. Magnificent.

  He lifted her and carried her to the bed. Effortlessly. She felt light, fragile, feminine in a way she’d only felt once before. He’d carried her then, too.

  And then they were on the bed, in each others’ arms again, touching, caressing, exploring. Loving.

  He was so careful of her bruises she wanted to weep. With hands that shook slightly with fiercely reined-in need, he turned her gently onto her good side and, facing her, began to work his way down her body, kissing, stroking, licking. Everywhere he touched her she felt beautiful. She touched him wherever she could, kissing, stroking, wanting to return the pleasure but barely able to think.

  His hands were slow, deliberate. They skimmed, pressed, stroked. She shivered, loving every new sensation. He lightly brushed the undersides of her breasts with his fingers, in slow, aching circles, and she moved against them, her eyes clenched shut against the waves of pleasure, as if they could somehow spill out and escape.

  Her skin felt paper thin, tissue thin, aching with pleasurable sensitivity. The scrape of a bristle, the firm pressure of a mouth, the slow trail of a big, warm hand across her body.

  He moved higher, brushing oh-so-lightly over the upper slopes of her breasts and she arched helplessly toward him. More…more…

  He licked one tight, aching nipple, and it was like a warm, silken bath. He lifted his mouth and the cool night air pinched at her damp, deprived flesh, sending more ripples through her. Blindly, she clutched his head and brought it back to her.

  More…

  His mouth closed, a hot possession. Yes! She screamed and arched almost off the bed, then opened her eyes with sharp embarrassment.

  He made a sound, deep and low in his throat, and took the other breast in his mouth. The hot, driving sensation swamped her before she could say anything.

  Vaguely she felt his hands seeking between her legs, and she realized he was about to take her. She tried to brace herself for what she knew would follow, but he simply covered her with his hand, cupping her, warm and soothing, so she relaxed and gave herself up to the glories his mouth was performing on her breasts.

  And then his hand began to move. He stroked her lightly, his fingers just skimming, circling, pressing gently, achingly slow. Shivers of pleasure followed his every movement. Gradually the rhythmic stroking increased, still too slow, too light, tantalizing. She pressed herself against him and a long, strong finger slipped inside her and the pace and pressure of his rhythmic stroking increased.

  It built, a roiling, explosive pressure within her. She moved helplessly under his caresses, pushing herself at him, around him, against him. She wanted it to stop, she wanted it never to stop…she wanted…she wanted…

  She did not know what she wanted and, oh, the frustration of it was eating her alive. Devouring her. Swamping her. She gripped him harder, her limbs moving restlessly, frenziedly.

  She felt his hand shift, his fingers seek and find, and she half came off the bed in surprise as a shard of pleasure splintered her, over and over. She began shuddering uncontrollably. What was happening? She halfheartedly tried to push him away, but instead her body was pushing at him, demanding, seeking, wanting…It was as if some force, some power beyond her will, had taken over her body. She was a fallen leaf, swirling helplessly in a whirlpool, being swept along toward a waterfall.

  Then his hands moved again, and all thought was driven from her mind.

  Gideon’s body was taut as an arrow, trembling like a bow about to snap. He could hold back no longer. In one smooth movement he entered her. Her muscles clamped around him, and she began to move with him in a hot, primeval rhythm. He felt her climax coming. She cried out in shock, a little panicky.

  “I am here love, go with it, do not fight it.”

  She clung to him, and he held her tight and felt her shatter all around him. His own control splintered, and he let the dark waves take him, take them both. Deep within her he felt his body explode. And all he could do was hold her and keep her with him as he, too, shattered into blessed nothingness.

  It was still dark outside but a few birds were chattering in the trees surrounding the inn. It would be dawn soon. The wind had dropped. A chill was in the air.

  Gideon slipped from the bed and padded across to the fireplace. Embers were still glowing dully, so he stirred them up and added first some kindling,
then coal until a warm, bright blaze gilded the room once more. He did not want this night to die, for who knew what the dawn would bring. He never trusted dawn.

  He slipped back under the covers and watched her sleeping. God, she was beautiful. Her pale silken skin was flushed and dewy, her glorious hair a fiery tangle of curls clustered about her face. He touched a gleaming tendril. It curled possessively around his finger. He looked at her nose and smiled. Women were funny. She hated this nose of hers, the masterful little nose she’d looked down at him so often. He loved her nose. It was perfect. He bent over and kissed it lightly.

  She stirred and muttered and vaguely swatted him away.

  He lay there watching her, thinking about the night they’d passed. He’d thought he knew all there was to be known about the activities of the bedchamber. He had not known it could be like that.

  Like this, he thought as he watched the rise and fall as she breathed. Who would have believed that simply watching her breathe could move him so deeply? She was more precious to him than life.

  He was used to loving easily…but loving deeply…

  She moved. The covers shifted. In the firelight she was all cream and gold and rose and flame.

  Fresh need built in him.

  Her shoulder was bared, hunched against the morning chill. A beautiful shoulder, marred by an ugly bruise. He kissed the shoulder. She sighed and smiled in her sleep. She was not in pain then. He kissed the shoulder again. She moved, shifting the covers.

  Breasts. Creamy, rose-tipped, and more than beautiful. He tasted them lightly. Beautiful, but not his current goal. He slid lower, kissing and nibbling his way down her body, exploring and tasting each soft, delectable curve. Sleepily, luxuriously, she arched against him, and as she stirred, he reached his goal.

  He tasted salt and heat and woman. His woman. The one he hadn’t known, hadn’t believed existed. Who had made a man out of a sham. His mouth claimed her.

  “G-Gideon?” Her voice was hesitant, surprised. A little embarrassed.

  “Morning, love,” he said and continued with his task. She gasped but said no more. She communicated her pleasure in squeaks and gasps and silent tremors, and with small, convulsive clutches at his hair as she melted all around him. And as he took her to her climax, she cried out, shuddering against him. The words he had once dreaded…and now craved to hear.

  “I love you.”

  Prudence sighed. It was a glorious sunny morning, one of those days where it seemed the whole of England smiled. She stared out of the carriage window, staring blankly at green fields, clean, prosperous villages, rolling hills.

  Gideon and she would be married, she knew.

  She ought to be over the moon with happiness. She was, almost. One tiny question niggled at the back of her mind, like a sore tooth.

  Did he really want to marry her?

  He desired and cared for her, she knew that now. How could she not, after that blissful night they’d spent together? And the blissful morning.

  But did he truly desire to marry her, the way she wanted to marry him? And did he love her the way she loved him?

  Because he hadn’t yet said it. He hadn’t said the simple little words, I love you.

  He’d spoken of “want” and “need,” not love. He’d called her “love” but endearments slipped easily off his tongue.

  And he still hadn’t uttered those simple little words, Will you marry me?

  Was he being noble? Was his decision to marry her another kind of rescue, an apparently blithe acceptance of his fate?

  If it was, he would be kind and try not to let her see it—he was gallant that way. But she would know, eventually. To have only kindness and gallantry and duty, and not his love…she would rather die.

  He wanted her now, she knew, could feel his eyes on her. Her body still thrilled with secret knowledge of his wanting. But he hadn’t indicated it was any more than that. Want and need were wonderful, she had to admit, but they were not enough for her.

  True love grew and grew. To love and be loved like that was what she’d yearned for all her life.

  She had to know. She would have to ask him. But it was so difficult to ask. She sighed again.

  “That’s the third time you’ve sighed in as many minutes. What is it, my Prudence?” His voice was tender, concerned.

  “I need…I need to ask you something.”

  “Oh?”

  She hurried on, “It is a little difficult to ask, after such a night of…of blissful splendor—”

  “Blissful splendor, eh?”

  She felt herself blushing. “Yes. But when you asked me the other day in Lady Augusta’s parlor, to…to live with you and be your love, what exactly what did you mean?”

  He was silent, so she hurried to explain. “Oh, I know you very kindly claimed me as your fiancée when Phillip let me down so publicly. And I know you told Grandpapa I was your wife-to-be, and so I know you are obliged to—um—because I know you are truly noble at heart and will marry me to protect me. So I am not doubting your intentions.”

  His eyes darkened.

  “But back then, in Bath, in Lady Augusta’s parlor, did you actually mean to invite me to be your mistress?”

  He stared at her and she squirmed slightly in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, but I do need to know. It’s all right if you did…” It wasn’t really all right, but she desperately needed to know the truth. “I just…need to clarify matters. In my mind. I know it will not change anything. Just, please tell me.” She found she was wringing her hands, quite painfully. She stopped, folding them in a ladylike fashion in her lap.

  “Have you finished, Imp?”

  She looked up from her folded hands. “Y-yes.”

  He reached out and took her hand in his. Prudence braced herself to accept an unpalatable truth with dignity.

  “Firstly, let me make one thing quite clear. I did not ask you to become my mistress. Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Phillip said—”

  He shook his head. “I might have known. I thought all that was the past.”

  She bit her lip and nodded. “I know. It is. I’m sorry. And at first I did believe that you had asked me—very indirectly—to marry you. But then he pointed out you’d only spoken of protection, and said, ‘Come live with me and be my love and we shall all the pleasures prove.’” Her cheeks heated again as her body remembered the previous night when he had proved pleasures beyond any imagining. “Well, I wasn’t sure anymore.”

  He closed his eyes, put his head in his hands, and made a sound halfway between a laugh and a moan. When he opened his eyes again, they were darkly rueful. “That piece of verse, my dearest love, was not a rake asking you to be his mistress but a poor, hopeless fool desperately in love for the first and last time in his life, and making a terrible mull of his first-ever marriage proposal.”

  Prudence could not breathe. My dearest love? In love for the first and last time in his life? Desperately in love?

  He shook his head and smiled apologetically. “I am not very good at proposing, you see—haven’t had a lot of practice. I was desperate to win you, but it wasn’t going well. I thought poetry would help.” He let go of her, and ran a hand through his hair. “God help me, I thought it was romantic!”

  “Oh, but it was, it is!” Prudence clutched his hands again. “I’m sorry I doubted you. It was just—”

  “My regrettable past, I know. I am not a rake anymore. There is only one woman in the world for me: my Prudence.”

  And there, in the jolting carriage, he knelt down at her feet, took her hand in his, and said, “My dearest love, will you please say you will marry me and make me the happiest man on earth?”

  “Oh, yes,” she breathed. She could not see him clearly for tears. “Yes, please. Oh, I am so glad! It was so distressing to find I still had doubts, even after we, we…um…” She paused, still not having a word for what they had done together.

  “Had a moment of blissful splendor?” he prompted, r
ising, his eyes laughing, yet tender.

  “Yes, that.” Filled with feelings that had to burst from her or explode, she flung herself at his chest and they fell back on the seat. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him hard. On the mouth. On the chin. On the jaw. On the mouth again.

  “I love you, Gideon. I love you so much.”

  “Oh Prue,” he groaned, “you are my life, my love, my heart.”

  Oh, but he tasted good. And he felt wonderful.

  Her hands, her mouth, grew greedy with pleasure and desire. She wanted more of him. “May I open your shirt?”

  He grinned. “You may open anything you wish.”

  “It is just that I wish to touch more of you; you feel so very nice,” she explained as she tugged his shirt open.

  “So do you, love.” He reached for her but she stopped him.

  “Not yet. This is my turn. Sit still, please.”

  He sat back, his eyes dancing. “Bossy little creature, aren’t you?”

  Her hands roamed over him, learning him, delighting in his differences, the hard angled muscles of his body, the rough friction of hair where she was smooth, the powerful strength of him where she was soft.

  Remembering what he had done to her, she licked his skin, tentatively at first. She ran his taste around in her mouth, savoring it. So this was the taste of love. A little salty, a little tangy and dangerous, yet with an underlying rightness. His chest was all firm planes, lightly sprinkled with dark hair, wonderfully abrasive. She spotted a tiny disk of raised, dusky skin; like her in a way, and yet so very unlike. Remembering how exquisitely pleasurable it had been when he took her nipple into his mouth, she touched her tongue to it and licked. He moaned with pleasure.

  It was a most satisfactory sound. She felt filled with feminine power. She moved to the other nipple and repeated the process, licking and sucking. Beneath her she felt his arousal thrusting against her. What a shame they would have to wait. She rubbed her body against him and he groaned again.