Lord Ruin

by Carolyn Jewel

  From the bed, Anne spoke up. “My lord, honestly. I would not like to have so many people discommoded on my account.” She looked away from his black eyes. She had to stop torturing herself this way. He was nothing more than a concerned host. Nothing more and everything but, she thought. She spied a small flagon on the dresser, stoppered crystal rimmed with gold. She concentrated on that instead of her throbbing ankle or Devon’s intentions and her own flood of conflicting reactions.

  Dark green and gold made the chamber’s primary colors. Solid furniture, a sturdy desk on which there sat an escritoire, near that a stack of paper and a mahogany box for pen and ink. A pair of soft leather boots shaped to a man’s calves lay near a wardrobe. Near that, a stack of linen shirts, freshly pressed. Hanging discreetly over a stand in the corner, a pair of charcoal trousers. A gentleman’s personal effects surrounded her. That was a shaving kit on the dresser, made of pigskin with a crest embossed in shining gold. Not the Bracebridge coat of arms, though. A cockatrice below a duke’s coronet. A duke’s coronet.

  “This is Cynssyr’s room!” Anne said, failing to keep the shock from her voice.

  “Now do you understand?” Devon jumped from his chair.

  Mary threw up her hands. “Bracebridge, you said yourself he’s delayed until at least tomorrow if not beyond. What’s the harm? He’ll never know. And if Anne’s foot is broken, you and the duke may share quarters. I’m sure he’ll survive the ignominy.”

  Anne looked around. Cynssyr’s belongings and none other’s. He meant to come to Corth Abbey. He must if he’d sent his valet on ahead. She had a sudden and inexplicable picture of herself standing at the open window pouring the contents of his crystal flagon onto the bushes below. The imagined spite made her smile.

  Devon leaned forward, reaching for her hand. “Feeling better?”

  She nodded. Crowded as she now felt by the duke when he wasn’t even here, she suddenly had little hope she could convince him to do anything he didn’t want to. Well, she would think of something. She had to, and God help her if Emily thought she loved the man. But she didn’t think so. Emily, when at last she loved, would love wholeheartedly and without restraint. She’d know, everyone would know, when Emily fell in love. No, her fear was that Emily might feel obligated to make the marriage.

  The doctor’s arrival interrupted Devon’s tale of the Italian palazzo that had inspired the layout of the Abbey. Anne sighed. She was sick unto death of doctors. He examined Anne’s ankle and concurred it was not broken. Satisfied that her sister’s condition, while painful, was not serious, Mary left to fetch some of Anne’s things. The doctor filled a glass with water and added two drops of another liquid.

  “A small amount for now, Miss Sinclair. I’ll leave a stronger dose for you to take if you wake in the night.” Under his watchful eye, Anne drank down the contents.

  Mary returned with a nightdress discreetly folded over her arm. Lucy was with her. “Go on, all of you men. Out.” Mary put down her bundle and made shooing gestures.

  Before leaving, the doctor prepared a second glass, titrating several more drops into the water. “There. Should you need it in the night.” He pointed to the nightstand.

  “Thank you.”

  Mary sat on the edge of the bed when the sisters were alone. “Was not Bracebridge masterful? Carrying you up the stairs like you were his lover.”

  “Mary.”

  “Well, wasn’t he? Tell me, are those shoulders as strong as they look?”

  “Put that down, Lucy,” Anne said. She successfully damped the spark of hope. Just admitting that Devon Carlisle was more than a man whom she happened to know felt traitorous, a betrayal of her father and duty. Frightening and exhilarating both, and neither reaction pleased her. It wasn’t wise of her, she thought, to tempt herself with hopes of a husband and children of her own. In truth, a part of her had already accepted the possibility and soared with a giddy happiness.

  Lucy sniffed the laudanum-dosed water. “Doesn’t smell like much. I think he ought to have given you more. Are you going to answer Mary’s question?”

  “What question?” The laudanum began to take effect and concentration became difficult. At least her ankle didn’t hurt anymore.

  “About Lord Bracebridge’s shoulders.”

  Mary laughed. Anne glared at her. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” She did, though, and despite everything, she joined in the laughter. “Devon’s shoulders are broad. And his chest...Oh, my.”

  “Do put that down, Lucy,” Mary said. “You’ll spill it. Go on, Anne.”

  “He smells good, too.”

  Lucy put down the glass, not on the nightstand, but on the sidetable by the washbasin. “A fatal case if ever there was.”

  Mary took her hand. “You could marry, Anne. It’s not too late for you.”

  “Yes, it is.” She felt as if she were floating. A magical, wonderful sensation.

  “He’s waited for you since Aldreth and I were married.”

  “How could you know that?” She wasn’t entirely certain she’d spoken out loud but she must have for Mary answered.

  “Aldreth told me so.”

  “Why do you think he invited us here?” Lucy said.

  “So that Lord Ruin could break Emily’s heart.”

  “Nonsense, Anne. Now, we’ll manage Papa,” Mary said over Lucy’s peal of laughter. “Don’t you worry about that.”

  “I predict a marriage.” Lucy grinned at Mary as if Anne weren’t able to see. “Indeed, yes. A marriage all because Anne has injured her ankle.”

  “Your injury will lead to a wedding,” said Mary with a smile. “Yes, I daresay so.”

  Anne’s last thought as she drifted into the welcoming arms of unconsciousness was that she hoped her sisters were right.

  As it happened, they were.

  CHAPTER 4

  Ruan saw to his own horse when he made the Abbey at about half past one in the morning. Thank heaven for a full moon and clear sky, or he’d have never tried to make Corth Abbey before morning. Good weather and good luck. The front door was unlocked. He didn’t need to rouse the servants. Greatcoat folded over an arm, he went upstairs. He heard voices from the parlor, his mother’s among them. Time enough for explanation in the morning, he decided, walking past with a silence learned on campaign. He did not particularly care to hear his mother’s reaction to Emily Sinclair tonight. If he made an appearance, he was in for an inquisition. He hadn’t the patience for it, not at this hour.

  Whenever he came to Corth Abbey, he stayed in the same room. Just as Dev always had the same room if he spent a night at Cyrwthorn or at the estate in Cornwall. The idea that by week’s end he would be an engaged man buoyed his spirits, quite unnaturally for a man of his temperament. He fully intended to break through that layer of disdain Miss Emily Sinclair had adopted toward him. The girl refused to be easily caught. Well, the hunt was on, and Emily Sinclair was no better than a hapless fox and him the baying hound. She would be his duchess. Lord Ruin ought to marry the most beautiful woman London had seen in many a season. Young, fresh, and so lovely he intended the shortest possible engagement.

  His room was closest to the stairs. Dobkin, his valet, had traveled with his mother’s servants the day before and had in his usual thorough and methodical manner arranged the room in anticipation of his arrival. A fire warmed the chamber. On the nightstand, a lamp cast a soft glow so he didn’t have to fumble for a light. His trunk stood in one corner, and he knew his clothes were laid out in the wardrobe. He threw his greatcoat over a chair and decided not to wake Dobkin. Coat and waistcoat he let drop on a chair. Loosening his shirt, he made for the washstand and sluiced the travel grime from his face and neck. He was pulling off his boots when he realized he was not alone.

  Panic had him reaching for his coat, but the fright passed. God knows a woman transformed any room she stayed in, and he did not see a single sign that the one in his bed was there for any purpose but the obvious. Her clothes would be somewhe
re. Perfume bottles arranged on the dresser, perhaps a pair of slippers near the bed, stockings or a shawl draped over a chair. On a suspicious whim, he threw open the wardrobe. And breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing but his own clothes inside. On the table was his shaving kit, laid out as if Dobkin were about to appear with a cup of foaming lather. Really, there wasn’t any doubt. Barefoot, he walked to the bed.

  “Dev, you rogue you.”

  The woman lay on her back, one arm thrown above her head. Sound asleep, despite the noise he’d made undressing. Not beautiful. Nor was she unaffecting. He sat on the edge of the bed. He rather liked her features, framed as they were by a few wisps of pale hair that had escaped a tidy braid. Sleeping, she looked as far from a whore as, well, the woman he intended to marry. The significance of her being in his room was not lost on him. One last hark to the wild life he and Devon were to leave behind.

  “This,” he said in a whisper as he slowly drew the covers down to her waist, “is what comes of a man owning a brothel.” To his surprise, she showed no sign of waking. He adjusted the bedclothes so that nearly the whole of one leg came into sight. A very long, very lovely leg. Her nightdress had slid up while she slept, to nearly the middle of her thigh. The material was fine cambric. No common whore her, but then Devon never did anything the common way.

  Thinking she must any moment awaken, he trailed a finger from her knee to mid-thigh. When it came to women, he was patience personified. She stirred, and he waited. But she only flung one arm over her chest. His attention diverted from her leg, he took it upon himself to remove her hand from her torso, gently laying it on the mattress. He shifted just enough to push aside the linens, for they were now most definitely a hindrance to him.

  “Sweet Christ,” he breathed.

  Her breasts were on the large side, more than a palm-full, a sumptuous, overflowing handful. Long and slender legs, small waist and those lovely round breasts that sent heat directly to his groin. He vowed never again to overlook a woman who did not have a conventionally pretty face. A ribbon held together the top edges of her nightdress. One tug on the end, and he was separating the two halves. Not, unfortunately, far enough to see all of her. But even what a man might see in any ballroom impressed him. He slipped a hand inside. With the pad of one finger he brought her nipple to a peak. She moaned softly and with her next breath he had more flesh against his palm than he could hold.

  A vision of her calves touching his back prompted him to move his attention back to her legs. He inched the cambric higher. She stirred again, and he checked to see if she’d woken. Her chest rose with another breath, trembling on a sigh, but she still slept. He very much longed to touch her legs at a higher point. Pushing the nightdress up and past her hips called for a combination of strength and dexterity since the woman slept like a log. Now, though, he could not only see but touch the surprisingly dark nether hair. Lord, but her skin was soft. Unconscionably soft. She smelled sweet, felt warm and silken.

  That soft skin of hers had him running a palm everywhere he could touch, feather-light strokes. A sigh came from her and with but a little encouragement her legs parted just enough for him to slip a finger between her thighs. His searching finger found the flesh that would make her moan in passion. Another sigh. Would that low sound become another man’s name? Devon’s, perhaps? He listened, but heard only her breath, faster now he’d brought her close to passion. Tension in her formerly lax body told him she was awake and, easing back a bit so as to both prolong and increase her climax when it came, he whispered, “You’re almost there, love.” There was nothing better than a grateful whore.

  “That’s nice.” She sounded sleepy, groggy with it. The neck of her nightdress opened wider when she strained upward into his hand.

  “Yes, it is,” he replied. He stopped, waiting for a protest that didn’t come in the form of words. Her head tossed on the pillow when his finger slid inside her just long enough to find heat and wetness. Another moment, and he returned to his slow, stroking motion. He had her quickly at the edge. He left her there a moment longer than he should have because it was such a pleasure to watch her.

  When at last he give her release, she abandoned herself to her body. Not one blessed ounce of inhibition. The long muscles of her legs tightened. Her pelvis arched to him, inviting the intimacy of his hand. A short while later her hands fisted at her sides. Her face in her moment of extremity had a look of wonderment so that a vain man might have thought himself the first ever to bring her to orgasm. Being neither a vain man nor a stupid one, he knew that wasn’t so. Devon would have brought her to such a state more than once. All the same, he found the reaction quite appealing.

  His fingers curled around her thigh just above her knee and stroked down. “There is something about a woman’s well-turned leg,” he murmured in a honeyed voice. “The exquisite blending of calf to knee.” God knows but her legs were exquisite. She winced, and he couldn’t imagine how he could possibly have hurt her. A glance at her foot told him how. A dark purple bruise ran from below her ankle bone forward to the middle arch of her very dainty foot. Probably hurt like the devil. “What have you done to your ankle?” He was only mildly curious, but he asked anyway. His fingers stroked upward, as far as her knee.

  “Oh.”

  His hand inched higher. “Yes, love?”

  “Oh.” Now he had his hand on her thigh. Her very upper thigh. “You are a wicked man.” She giggled and despite it being a giggle, he wasn’t put off. The silly sound convinced him all was exactly as he supposed. A lover of Devon’s who had injured an ankle. The familiar accent of his own class suggested she was perhaps once a governess now come to a more profitable employment. With her in his room and so wonderfully the flirt, why should he think otherwise?

  Devon was just the sort to give up a perfectly acceptable mistress because he fancied himself in love with some old-maid from the country. He considered taking her right then, coyness be damned. As wildly as she’d come, perhaps she’d enjoy a hard, fast coupling. He stood up and shucked his trousers, watching as she recovered herself.

  A small frown line appeared between her brows. That surprised him. He’d been expecting a soft smile, an inviting pout. Slowly, her eyes focused. She did not immediately look at him. When she did, the frown deepened. She closed her eyes, then opened them again. “Who are you?” she whispered. “A dream? Surely, a dream. A wonderful dream.”

  “A man who wants you,” he replied.

  “You aren’t Devon.”

  “No.” He softly laughed. “Indeed not.” He stepped out of his underclothes and thought about how much he wanted to touch her breasts.

  “Lord Ruin.” But for the odd vagueness about her, almost a blankness, he might have thought her better than pretty. Some men preferred their women on the feeble side. He never had. At the moment, however, he was more than willing to overlook any defect in her intelligence.

  “The very same, my love.”

  “Oh,” she said in a voice that sounded, to his ears, as if she were going to fall back to sleep. “Then it’s all right. I know who you are.” She laughed. “How fortuitous it’s you, though. Quite a stroke of luck. I did so hope to see you in private.”

  “Did you now?” Even with the rather vague expression, he revised his initial opinion of her looks. Her features were more than a little enticing. Nice mouth, good cheekbones. In the soft darkness, her eyes showed indeterminate color and sleepy passion. Naked as the day he was born, he lay on the bed this time, leaning his weight on one elbow. “Whatever are you doing so far away from me?” He chuckled when he saw her looking at him. As if she’d never seen a man before. “Touch me,” he said softly. “Go on,” he whispered when she did and said nothing except look at him from half-lidded eyes. “I’d like you to.”

  Shyly, she reached out. “Lord Ruin.” Fingertips traced the ridges of his abdomen down to his pelvis. She kept her eyes on her hands. For a time, he watched her face, enjoying the slow increase of arousal in her eyes and the way
her mouth curved ever so slightly. He groaned when she arrived at his pelvis, sliding over bone and sinew. He could almost believe her an innocent, the way she looked at him and how she started everything as if afraid she’d step wrong. But no innocent ever took a man’s balls in her hands, as the little witch was doing right now.

  Devon was a fool. Flat out a bloody fool, to give her up. He wondered what Devon wanted from him that he’d gone to the trouble of finding a woman so unexpectedly to his taste. A specific desire popped into his head, and he rather thought she was just the woman to satisfy it. “Kiss me, take me in your mouth,” he whispered urgently.

  For a moment, he thought she wouldn’t. Then, warm, damp pressure surrounded him, and he leaned back on his haunches. She started with deliberate slowness, learning him, practically committing him to memory, he thought. Whatever it was Dev wanted, he was going to see that he got it. “A little harder.” He took her head between his hands and showed her what he meant.

  “Yes.” He drew in a sharp breath when her tongue went his length, circled the tip until he thought he would expire from the sensation. She had the trick of it now, just the right pressure. Urgency built. Increased. Swelled until he knew she would kill him with that sweet, clever mouth. And then, it was upon him. He felt her trying to draw away as he came, but he held her tightly, not willing to give up her mouth even a moment before he was ready. “Christ. Oh, Christ.”

  When he let go, she straightened, pressing the back of her hand to her lips. He lifted her onto his lap. “I like to have a woman’s mouth around me when I come,” he said into her ear while being rather free with his hands. He lowered his mouth to the side of her neck. “Your mouth was very nice indeed.”

  “That tickles.”

  He kissed her once more, just to hear that warm, pleasing laugh again, then shifted her off his lap. “Stay here.” He went to the washstand, and on the way back brought her a glass of water. While she drank thirstily, he availed himself of the chamber pot. Upon rejoining her, he took the now empty glass and replaced it on the nightstand without actually watching what he was doing, so that he did it clumsily. “These, my darling, I cannot wait to kiss them.” His hand boldly caressing her breasts made the object of his sentence shockingly plain.