Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake

by Sarah MacLean

  “You’ve said that before,” she said.

  He turned a curious look on her. “I have?”

  She met his eyes and immediately regretted bringing up the decade-old memory, so insignificant to him—so very meaningful to her. She spoke quickly, trying to end the moment. “Yes. I don’t remember when. Shall we play?”

  His eyes narrowed on her slightly before he nodded. She was so flustered during the next round that he won easily, twenty to her twenty-eight.

  “You should have held on nineteen,” he offered casually.

  “Why? I still wouldn’t have won,” she said, grumpily.

  “Why Lady Calpurnia—” she was certain he used the name to provoke her, “I believe you are a sore loser.”

  “No one likes losing, my lord.”

  “Mmm. And yet it seems you have.”

  She sighed. “Get on with it. What do you want?”

  He watched her, waiting for her to meet his gaze. “Take down your hair.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Why?”

  “Because I won. And you agreed to the terms.”

  She considered his words briefly before lifting her hands and removing the pins that held her hair in place. As it fell in soft, brown waves around her shoulders, she said, “I must look silly, dressed in men’s clothing with all this hair.”

  His gaze hadn’t left her as she’d released her locks from their tight restraint. “I assure you, ‘silly’ is not the word I would use.”

  The words, spoken in the dark voice she was coming to adore, set her pulse racing. She cleared her throat. “Shall we continue?”

  He dealt the cards again. She won. Attempting to sound cool and collected, she said, “Do you have a mistress?”

  He froze briefly in collecting the cards, and she immediately regretted the question. She didn’t really want to know if he had a mistress. Did she?

  “I do not.”

  “Oh.” She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting him to say, but it hadn’t been that.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “I believe you. I mean, you wouldn’t be here with me if you could be somewhere with someone like…” She stopped, realizing that her words could be misunderstood. “Not that I think you’re here to…with me…”

  He watched her, his expression revealing none of his thoughts. “I would still be here with you.”

  “You would?” she squeaked.

  “Yes. You’re different. Refreshing.”

  “Oh. Well. Thank you.”

  “Mistresses can be rather difficult.”

  “I don’t imagine you like difficult,” she said quietly.

  “No. I don’t,” he agreed. He set the deck of cards down on the table. “Why are you so interested in mistresses and courtesans?”

  Not mistresses. Your mistresses. She shrugged her shoulders. “They’re rather fascinating to women who aren’t so…free.”

  “I’d hardly call them free.”

  “Oh! But they are! They can behave however they’d like, with whomever they like! They’re not at all like women in society. We’re expected to sit quietly while men hie off and sow their wild oats. I think it’s high time that women have the chance to sow some oats of their own. And those women do.”

  “You have an overly romanticized view of what women like that can and cannot do. They are bound to the men with whom they consort. They rely on them for everything. Money, food, clothing.”

  “How is that different from me? I rely on Benedick for all those things.”

  He was clearly uncomfortable with the comparison. “It’s different. He’s your brother.”

  She shook her head. “You’re wrong. It’s quite the same. Only women like the one across the corridor get to choose the men to whom they are beholden.”

  His tone turned serious. “You don’t know the first thing about the woman across the corridor, Callie. She is the opposite of free. I assure you. And I suggest you stop romanticizing her before it gets you into trouble.”

  Whether the result of the adventure of the evening or the verbal sparring with Ralston, Callie’s mouth seemed to have become completely disconnected from her sense of self-preservation. “Why?” she asked. “I confess, I’m rather intrigued by the whole idea. I wouldn’t necessarily dismiss an offer to become someone’s mistress out of hand.”

  The words stunned him into silence, and Callie couldn’t hide the little smirk of victory that sprang to her face as she noted his surprise. His brows snapped together as she reached across the table to lift the cards and begin dealing them. He grabbed her hand, stilling her motion and drawing her gaze to his, which glittered with an emotion she couldn’t quite place except to know it was not a good thing. “You don’t mean it.” His tone brooked no refusal.

  “I—” She sensed danger and spoke the truth. “Of course not.”

  “Is it on the list?”

  “What? No!” Her shock was real enough to convince him.

  “You are too valuable to play the mistress to some society dandy, Callie. It’s not a glamorous role. Not a romantic one. Those women live in gilded cages. You should have a pedestal.”

  She scoffed. “Thank you, no. I would prefer not to be handled with kid gloves and apologies.” She tugged her hand from beneath his. The warmth of his touch was too much. Too close to what she really wanted—to what she’d wanted for her whole life.

  “Apologies?”

  She closed her eyes for a brief moment, shoring up her courage. “Yes. Apologies. Like the one you delivered so beautifully this morning. If I were anyone else…your opera singer…the woman across the hall…would you have apologized?”

  He looked confused. “No…but you are neither of those women. You deserve better.”

  “Better,” she repeated, frustrated. “That’s just my point! You and the rest of society believe that it’s better for me to be set upon a pedestal of primness and propriety—which might have been fine if a decade on that pedestal hadn’t simply landed me on the shelf. Perhaps unmarried young women like our sisters should be there. But what of me?” Her voice dropped as she looked down at the cards in her hands. “I’m never going to get a chance to experience life from up there. All that is up there is dust and unwanted apologies. The same cage as hers”—she indicated the woman outside—“merely a different gilt.”

  He watched her carefully, unmoving, as the words poured out. When he did not respond, she looked up at him, only to find his expression shuttered. What was he thinking?

  “Deal the cards.”

  She did, and they played the next round in silence, but it was clear he was no longer playing a harmless game of twenty-one. She knew from his hard face that he would win, and her heart pounded in her chest at the thought—what would he do in the face of her outburst?

  When he won, he threw his cards into the center of the table. In silence, he stood, moved to the sideboard and poured two glasses of scotch. Returning, he offered her one of the tumblers.

  She took it and sipped the amber liquid, surprised when she did not sputter and cough as she had in the tavern. In fact, the liquor served only to enhance the warmth that had spread through her as she waited for Gabriel to name his next favor.

  Turning away from her, he moved to one of the overstuffed chairs by the fireplace and relaxed into it. She watched as he stared into the fire, wondering what he was thinking. Was he considering taking her home? She’d certainly said enough not only to embarrass herself but also him. Should she apologize?

  “Come here.” The words cut through the room, even though he didn’t redirect his attention from the dancing flames.

  “Why?”

  “Because I will it.”

  An hour ago, she would have laughed at the imperious sentiment but, for some inexplicable reason, at that moment, Callie was drawn to the command. She stood and went to him, stopping mere inches from his right arm. She waited, the sound of her own blood pounding in her ear, the sound of her breath seeming to fill the room.
<
br />   The wait was torturous.

  And then he turned to her with an imperious look in his brilliant blue eyes, and said, “Sit.”

  It wasn’t what she had expected. She moved stiltedly to take the other chair, but stopped as he added, “Not there, Empress. Here.”

  She turned back to him, surprise and confusion in her eyes. “Where?”

  He reached out a hand. “Here.”

  The word echoed through the room. He meant for her to sit on his lap? She shook her head “I couldn’t.”

  “You wanted to try the role on for size, lovely,” he said, the words warm and coaxing. “Come. Sit with me.”

  She knew without his having to say any more that this was her chance to experience it all. With Ralston.

  She moved to stand directly in front of him and met his eyes. She did not say anything; she did not have to. Within seconds, he had pulled her down onto his lap and covered her lips with his.

  There was no turning back.

  She gave herself up to the adventure. And to him.

  Eighteen

  The kiss was darker, more deliberate, more intense than any they had shared previously, and Callie had the immediate sense that Ralston was giving her the experience for which she had asked. The idea thrilled her—that this man, whom she had been pining for years, would be the one to show her the enticing, wicked place that she was so eager to know.

  His tongue stroked her bottom lip as his hands roamed over her, freeing the buttons of the waistcoat she wore and deftly shucking the layers off her shoulders and down her arms before pulling the hem of her shirt from the waistband of her breeches. His warm, powerful hands settled on the soft, bare skin just above her breeches, and he took the opportunity to plunder her mouth. He searched and stroked, sending ripples of pleasure pooling deep within her as his hand stole upward, toward her breasts. She was overwhelmed by the combination of sensations from his wicked mouth and knowing fingers, and she could do nothing but wait for him to touch her where she wished…how she wished.

  He pulled back sharply as his hand reached the linen bindings and he cursed—eyes flashing.

  “Don’t bind them again,” he said, breath harsh, matched by her own. He caught the back of her head in the palm of his free hand and speared her with an unyielding blue gaze. “Ever.”

  The words were spoken in a dark, possessive tone, and she shook her head, assuring him of her compliance with his wishes. “I won’t.”

  He held her eyes for a long moment, as if to divine the truth of her words. Satisfied, he claimed her mouth for a long, drugging kiss, sliding the cambric shirt up and releasing her mouth only long enough to pull the garment over her head. Resuming the kiss, he tossed the shirt aside, the white cloth fluttering through the air unnoticed as he returned his hands to her body, seeking and finding the end of the linen binding. Just when she was certain that he would begin to unwrap the cloth, his hands spread wide and he released her mouth again. The combination of his warm, firm hands upon her, the cool air against her lips, the hardness of his thighs beneath her, and the sound of their mingled breath was enough to rattle Callie’s senses, and it took her a moment to open her eyes.

  When she did, their gazes collided. Her breath caught as she read the passion in his gaze—barely controlled. She felt his chest rise and fall against her before he spoke. “Shall I free you, lovely?”

  The words sent a liquid shock through Callie. Their earlier conversation flashed in her mind, and she recognized the underlying meaning in them. Her mouth dropped open, and his eyes followed the movement. As though unable to resist, he leaned forward and nibbled on her moistened bottom lip before pulling back and rephrasing the question, one finger running lightly along the straining flesh above the linen wrap.

  “Shall I loose you from your cage?”

  The words, laden with sensual promise, weakened her. He was offering her all the adventure and excitement she’d ever wanted—the things she could not commit to her list, could not admit to herself, even in her most personal of moments. How could she refuse?

  She nodded her assent.

  It was all he needed.

  He slowly unraveled the long, linen bindings, pushing away her hands as she reached to help him. “No,” he said, his voice full of promise and possessiveness, “you are my gift. I shall unwrap you.”

  And he did, slowly releasing her breasts until they spilled into his hands and, as he had the last time they had found themselves in that position, he set his mouth to her angry flesh and soothed her. He made love to the red skin, marred by the creases in the tight linen, running tongue and teeth and fingers across her. Her hands moved of their own volition, her fingers plunging into his soft, dark hair to hold him close to her as her own head tipped back, the weight of her long, heavy tresses combining with the heady sensations he caused to steal her strength.

  His hands stole around her to keep her steady as his mouth took its toll—calling forth a gasp as he suckled softly on the hardened tip of one breast, sending waves of excitement coursing through her. She had never felt so wonderful, so female, so alive. And all because of him. The thought faded as he moved his attention to her other breast, lifting her as though she weighed nothing and rearranging her so that she straddled his lap, providing him with better access to her bounty. As he moved her, the loosened bandages fell to her waist and her list, freed from its hiding place, landed on his lap, brushing his forearm on its path. Distracted by the strange feeling, he looked at the folded paper sandwiched between them and picked it up, offering the square back to her. She accepted it, marveling at the rush of feeling that originated at the spot where their fingers touched. Holding his gaze, she tossed the paper to the side—heedless of where it landed.

  He clasped her to him, pulling her closer. His hands were everywhere, caressing her bottom, her legs, her breasts, lifting her mass of hair to bare her neck to his hot, wet mouth. He followed the column of her neck up to lick the soft lobe of one ear, then back to rain kisses along her collarbone and down to her straining nipples once more. He worshipped her breasts, sucking and licking across their straining tips as her hands traveled their own path of discovery, finding their way beneath the collar of his coat, over his broad shoulders, down the chiseled muscles of his chest.

  She set her fingers to the buttons of his waistcoat, tugging on the fastenings, uncertain of how she should proceed. He released one rose-tipped breast and met her eyes boldly. “Take what you want, Empress.”

  From the moment they’d started down this sensual path, he’d encouraged her to ignore the boundaries she met, to act boldly, with conviction. Tonight was no different. His words spurred her into action. Her fingers moved clumsily down the row of buttons, opening his waistcoat, baring his thin linen shirt. She paused, uncertain. She nibbled her lower lip as she considered her next step.

  He watched, eyes like slits, refusing to make her decision for her but unable to resist clasping the back of her head and taking her worried lip with his own, licking and sucking until they were both panting. Pulling back, he relaxed into the chair, covering her hands on his chest and watching as she tried to regain her composure. “What will you do with me, now?”

  She tilted her head, nervous, before saying, “I should like for you to be wearing fewer clothes.”

  He cocked a smile at her prim wording—so antithetical to the moment. His reply was gravelly, sending a shiver of pleasure through her. “Well, I certainly couldn’t deny a lady.”

  He shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat, lifting against her to do so. The movement forced him to press against her, and he groaned at the soft core of her cradling him. Divested of his outer layers, he let himself fall back to the chair, clasping her hips tightly as he did so, unwilling to allow the sensation of her against him to end. Pushing against her again, he watched as she sighed with pleasure at the pressure—just where she was desperate for it.

  Holding her gaze, he lifted again, sending a wave of passion through her once more. “Is that
what you want, lovely?”

  The question came on a pant of breath, and she noticed that he was as affected by the movement as she was. In response, she smiled boldly and ground herself against him in a firm, circular motion. His hands moved instantly to her hips to hold her tight to him. His eyes narrowed, and she felt powerful in the face of his passion.

  She shook her head boldly, unwilling to look away from him. “Even fewer clothes.”

  He smiled again, sitting up and easing his back from the chair before lifting the hem of his shirt from the waistband of his breeches. Pulling the shirt over his head, he sent it along the same path that hers had traveled earlier.

  Watching her watching him, he set his fingers to the tips of her breasts, teasing the flushed skin there. “Now what, Empress?”

  She swallowed at the sight of him—magnificent and corded and muscled and male—it was the first time she had seen a man without a shirt, and her mouth was suddenly dry. Dragging her gaze up to meet his, she said, “May I…touch you?”

  He gave a little laugh at the words. “Please.”

  Her eyes slid down to his chest and she set her hands to him, her fingers softly running up the sides of his torso, playing delicately over the planes of his chest. She ran one thumb over a flat nipple, and her eyes widened as it puckered, and the cadence of his breathing shifted. She repeated the motion, and he growled low in the back of his throat. She looked up at the sound, worried. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” The word came out on a harsh exhale. To prove it, he kissed her roundly, stroking deep inside her mouth, and mimicked the motion, rubbing his thumb across the turgid peak of one of her breasts until she whimpered with frustration. He spoke against her lips. “Does it hurt you?”

  She shook her head, taking a shaky breath. “No.” She stroked him again. “But it aches. In a good way. In a wonderful way.”

  He nodded. “Indeed. It does.”

  She watched her thumb as it traced slow circles around him, then leaned in and set her mouth to his chest. She could feel the thrum of his heart as she traced her lips across his warm skin, and she wondered what would happen if…her mouth found his nipple and she laved the straining flesh there.