Lord Ruin

by Carolyn Jewel

  He lifted his hands. “How?”

  “Perhaps you need a woman’s point of view.”

  “This is men’s business.” He rested a hand on the box. “Though if any woman could help it would be you.”

  “Then let me.”

  “I am forever telling you things I ought not.”

  “You take on too much, sir.” She touched her chest, but she meant him. “I would ease the burden on you, if only I could.”

  “Do not attempt to manage me.” He hated himself for snapping at her. “I despise women who think I can be managed.” Her eyes filled with hurt and then shuttered. Hell, he thought. He was a brute, and damn himself for that.

  “I am not managing at all, your grace.” She walked to her dressing table where she gathered up a ribbon and stood twining it in her hands. After a bit, she threw it down. “Not a bit, sir.”

  “Yes, you are. Come now, Anne, and tell me you forgive me.”

  She faced him. “Of course.”

  “You manage me quite well, the deuce take it.” He eyed her. A pair of dainty satin slippers, green like her gown, covered her feet and put a deadly feminine curve to as fine a pair of ankles as he’d ever seen. He felt the stirring of arousal. “Damnation but you do manage me.”

  “Green, I know you dislike it, sir, but it matches your eyes almost exactly.” She squeezed a handful of her skirt. “Madame Louise warned me, but I thought—” She touched her skirt, facing him again. “I never had so fine a gown in all my life. I feel out of place wearing it, and I thought, what difference will it make if it’s green or orange or any color in the world?”

  “You are exquisite.” And wasn’t that the bloody truth? “Venus incarnate. I can’t take my eyes off you.” Most particularly off the swell of her bosom, that creamy, rounded flesh he so adored. Or was it the tiny waist? He ended up staring at Anne’s reflection since she’d turned to let Tilly adjust a petticoat. He sure as Satan in hell did not understand why she affected him this way. But she did.

  “Find the satin, Tilly,” she said. “The pink.”

  “The gown you have on is perfect,” he said.

  “You once said yourself green is not my color.”

  “No.” His wife wasn’t beautiful. He knew she was not, but his nether parts didn’t seem to notice. They never did. Once, the arrangement of a woman’s features had been the sole criterion by which he judged her beauty. But more and more Anne pleased him better than any Beauty he’d ever known. Her physical shortcomings were numerous. Her mouth a bit too wide. Her face not a perfect oval. Nose ordinary, chin ordinary. And yet he couldn’t remember wanting even Katie as badly as this. Hell, his dainty, fragile beauty of a mistress had never intrigued him like this. Much as he appreciated Katie as a woman, it was pure and simple the case that he liked Anne. He liked her, and he wanted her to like him in turn. Unsettling. A bit. He’d never cared before whether a woman liked him. What mattered, if he wanted her, was whether she could be made to want him, too. Invariably the answer had been yes.

  Anne faced him serene as if she were going for a walk to the corner and back. He was beginning to hate that amiable expression. He much preferred Anne when she had less control of her emotions. “Changing won’t take long.”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “I forbid it.” He stood. God, he wanted to touch her, to have her melting in his arms as she had at Corth Abbey. Though she hadn’t Emily’s exquisite features, nor Lucy’s ethereal beauty, nor Mary’s outright charm, she beguiled all the same, especially when that uncertain smile hovered around her lips. “You’re lovely,” he murmured, holding out a hand for her to take while he started her in a slow turn. “Quite lovely.”

  “Acceptable, anyway. And I thank you for your compliments.”

  “I was wrong to insist green was not your color.”

  The woman had no idea what a rarity she’d just heard from him. The duke of Cynssyr admitting he was wrong. All she did was nod, as if she did not entirely trust his honesty with her. “Thank you, sir.” He did not release her hand, but let her fingers slowly slip from his of her accord.

  “Always so formal. Please, not ‘sir.’ Cynssyr would suit me. Cyn, if you like. Better yet, Ruan.”

  She pushed her spectacles upward. “Nerves. You unsettle my nerves,” she said.

  “You needn’t be anxious, Anne.” He really couldn’t keep his hands off her.

  “I can’t help it.”

  “I dislike your formality.” Deliberately, he kept a stern expression, knowing she would take the remark to heart and would be that much nearer to the Anne beneath the pleasant exterior. When she had, he took a step nearer. “Your formality keeps us at arms length when I want not even a hairbreadths between us.”

  She guessed his intentions for she backed away, saying, “Tilly, you may go.”

  Whether the maid saw them mattered not a whit to him. The door wasn’t closed before he had his arms around her waist to pull her close. Anne’s face was but inches from his, long black lashes making her eyes impossibly clear by the contrast and that mouth enticed him to bold action. “I have no control whatever,” he complained.

  He bent his head. His mouth touched hers softly, a whisper of a kiss that came a breath away from flaming out of control. The air turned thick, combustible almost. He was gunpowder, she the lit match. He brushed his lips over her bosom. Without conscious thought, he cupped her breast. The hunger he always experienced with her rose up, sharp and demanding he sate himself. Sliding his fingers into her hair, he pulled back, exposing her throat to his searching mouth. Her arms gripped his shoulders for balance.

  Frantic to have her breasts under his hands and in his mouth, he unfastened her gown to her waist, unlaced her corset and generally made a mess of her chemise. He knew her breasts were tender, and it was pure deviltry that delighted in her moans and her back arching toward him as he slid his tongue across her nipples.

  “Lift your gown,” he growled, not at all certain she would comply. He sank to his knees, leaning back and using one hand to unfasten his trousers. When he looked up, Anne stood above him, her upper gown in complete disarray, holding her skirts above her knees. She stood that way because he’d told her to, not because she understood the first thing about the power she had over him. It made the moment all the more arousing.

  He put his hands on the back of her knees and pulled forward. She sank down, they adjusted and met unerringly. He went deep inside her, stroking hard, sliding in her heat. Holding her was like holding heat itself. Christ, but she knew what to do. Every atom of his being balanced on the point of orgasm. Release danced just out of reach, unendurable and unbearable.

  “Now. God, now. Anne.” He lost himself completely, became wholly absorbed by the demand for release. “Now or I’ll die.” She did something with her hips and pleasure roared through him.

  When he gathered himself enough to open his eyes, he saw he’d undone a good deal of Tilly’s efforts. “Christ, woman.” He sat forward and kissed her mouth, a hard, brief kiss. “What you do to me is beyond comprehension.” One deep breath, and he was as under control as he could be around her. His own clothes were easily restored. They set themselves to repairing the damage to her hair and dress. No one but him would know her chemise was damp from his mouth. One stocking was ruined, but he found a replacement. Fortunately, he knew his way around hooks and hairpins and before long, she was once again presentable.

  He remembered the box he’d brought with him and that now lay somewhere on the floor. The bloody reason for being here. Under the damn ottoman. He retrieved the box. “My wedding gift to you.” He handed it to her without the fine words he’d planned. “A bit tardy, perhaps, but here it is at last. Open it.”

  She did.

  The diamonds glittered with that inner fire so peculiar to the finest gems. Tiara, necklace, bracelets, three rings, ear drops, two sets, long and short. There were plenty of gems in the vault, but Anne must have something given by him, not one
of his ancestors. He was, for some unfathomable reason, a bit on edge. Fancy that. Presenting a woman with a generous gift was something with which he had a great deal of experience. But he wanted to please her rather than impress her, and he had no guarantee of that. Anne fell far outside his experience of women.

  Time passed with exquisite slowness.

  About now, Katie would be beside herself with gratitude. An excited squeal, a delighted clap of the hands. A passionate kiss as a prelude to other displays of appreciation. Anne uttered no squeal of excitement. No delighted clap of the hands. No passionate kiss. He ought to have known she would not like gems in such abundance. Katie, or any of his past mistresses, would have loved them, but if he knew anything at all about the woman to whom he was married, it was that her tastes did not tend to the extravagant.

  “If you do not like them, there are other jewels,” he said. “There’s just time to choose something else. The emeralds, if I am not mistaken, will go well with your gown.” His father had ordered the emeralds reset to a more modern sensibility which meant the settings were twenty years out of fashion, but the stones were close to flawless.

  “Emeralds?” Slowly, she lifted her eyes to him. “But, your eyes are peridot. Not emerald.”

  He reached for the box. Her face became a perfect picture of misery when he took the velvet case from her. She started to speak, faltered when he lifted one eyebrow, then said with complete sincerity, “They take my breath, Cynssyr.”

  “As you have taken mine.”

  “Will you help me?”

  He lifted the tiara from the box, finding pins to secure the piece on her head. Then, he scooped up the necklace and fastened it about her neck. The lowermost stone hung barely half-an-inch from the swell of her chest. She turned when he finished and let him fasten the earrings, too, the long ones. “The Queen herself could not look more regal,” he told her, meaning every word, too.

  She ran her fingers over the necklace. “I never dreamed of anything so beautiful.” She went on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. A peck. A dutiful peck. Progress. A week ago, she wouldn’t have dared even that much. “Thank you, sir. Cynssyr.” Her hand slipped down and touched his fingers.

  He reached for her spectacles and removed them. “Come, my dear. London awaits.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Anne’s first experience of her husband’s mastery of all things social did little to soothe her nerves. Just standing in the receiving line Cynssyr was a sun around whom others hoped to orbit, and she was simply no match for his brilliance. The sheer number of people whose names he knew overwhelmed her. And he always knew some personal detail about each one, some bit of information that made each feel welcome. A grandson inquired after, a favorite dance promised, a passion for painted plates recalled. All manner of looks came her way, from frankly curious to disdainful but very few were friendly. By the time she and Cynssyr left the great hall for the dining room her hand felt wrung out and her foot had gone to sleep.

  She knew she’d not made much of an impression, perhaps even so small an impression as to constitute a bad one, but dinner, thankfully, was a complete success. Gleaming candelabra and gold-rimmed crystal amid arrangements of white roses and Cynssyr’s best porcelain service elicited more than a few admiring nods.

  Footmen worked with military precision bringing in one course as another was cleared. The wine never ran out and the food—large unstinting portions sublimely prepared. She bowed her head and gave a prayer of gratitude for Jubert’s genius in carrying out the menu. Best of all, someone had contrived to see that the blandest of victuals were constantly at her side. Bread, clear consume, buttered potatoes so that she could easily conceal her tepid appetite.

  Aldreth sat on her right, to her left none other than the Marquess of Thrale. Lady Prescott made a friendly neighbor and the Countess of Vale another. Devon sat close enough to frequently join in so that Anne, who had most dreaded having to make conversation with strangers, was quickly at ease. Thrale she particularly liked for he took pity on her schoolgirl French and replied in English often enough that she did not seem hopelessly the country miss. And once the Marquess discovered she had a more than passing knowledge of music, they gave up French entirely.

  At the opposite end of the table, Cynssyr held court with the expected elan. Once or twice she caught him watching her with an impenetrable gaze. Honestly, she was always aware of him on some level, but on one occasion when their eyes met, leaning against his chair, he lifted a knuckle and absently rubbed it across his lower lip. He might as well have been touching her, for there she was once again standing at cliff’s edge looking down. Her stomach fell as only at Cynssyr’s intimate caress. Her breath simply stopped. The noise dampened, the clatter of silver against china ceased. Then Lady Prescott, who sat at Cynssyr’s right, rapped him on the arm and all was as it had been. The moment shook her to her toes. She managed to finish the meal without further incident, and even, so she fancied, to improve the impression she made.

  Ruan danced the opening minuet with Anne and from then on, he lost his wife to a crowd of men eager to officially meet Lord Ruin’s wife. The Marquess of Thrale, who had practically usurped her at supper, William Fenney, Portland, Brenley Cooke, Julian Durling, Sather, Kinross, the old goat, and too many others to name.

  His mother found him during one of his rare moments of solitude. “You are brooding, Cyn,” she said.

  “I am not.” But he was. He was brooding because he’d had Anne to himself these past two weeks and sharing her was not much to his liking. His mother, however, mistook the cause of his black silence.

  “So far she’s done well.”

  He watched Anne dancing with Benjamin. “A bit too subdued in the receiving line,” he replied blandly.

  “I like her. She will do you good.”

  “Agreed.” He gave her a wry smile. “I’ve surprised you. Well, it surprises me, too. The question, Mama, is whether I shall do her any good.”

  His mother gave him a considering look. “She dances better than I hoped.”

  “Yes.” Her pleasure in dancing became a seductive quality quite apart from anything else a man generally admired in a woman. As he stood there with his mother, a rousing jig followed a reel, and there Anne was, in the thick of it, a smiling, laughing goddess. Rhythmically stomping feet and clapping hands nearly drowned out the pipes and fiddles. People joyfully made their own music. Anne shook her head so that the light caught the diamonds and scattered a halo of rainbow light. She was his, and he liked that state of affairs. Only his. Just watching her he wanted to take her off and make love to her.

  “She’s been noticed,” his mother remarked.

  “Yes,” he replied. Indeed, the men noticed her. Before his very eyes his wife transformed herself from old-maid forced into marriage to the woman Cynssyr had been lucky enough to catch. He decided, at last, to be amused by the notion.

  “Well, my dear boy,” she said, sounding amused, too. “I think I’ll rest my tired bones.”

  “Mm,” he said. Anne carried his child, he thought. Her first concern must be her health, not dancing with that lecher Cyril Leander who only wanted one thing from any woman between the ages of twenty and forty. “Excuse me, Mama.”

  He strode toward Anne and she, as if she sensed his presence, turned and broke into a smile of unreserved joy.

  “Well, well, Cyn,” someone said. There were other greetings from men he’d gambled with, drank with. Men he’d fought with, too. They surrounded Anne like bees around a hive. He ignored them all. All he noticed was her delight that he was with her. Pleasure on his account. He reached for her hand. Really, she was too sweet for the likes of him. He’d probably go straight to hell for being so fiercely unrepentant for what he’d done at Corth Abbey.

  “Cynssyr.” She smiled again, and for a moment he thought his heart would never start beating again. “I’m having such a grand time.”

  “The duchess,” he heard someone say, “dances as if on air.”
/>   “Why, thank you, my lord.”

  Ruan opened his mouth to demand that she rest.

  “Do you hear?” she said, breathless. “Oh, it’s wicked, isn’t it?” Her eyes lit mischievously. “Cynssyr, you didn’t order this did you? What will people say? A waltz.”

  In fact, he had ordered the waltz, and he was about to tell her so when Fenrother interrupted. “Dance with her, your grace.”

  “Go on, Cyn.”

  “Can’t deny her,” said a baron he remembered as an even harder gambler than he was a drinker.

  “Hear, hear.”

  He held out his hands, and she floated into his arms, her body supple and responsive. Usually, dancing bored him, a necessary evil visited upon men who craved the intimate company of women. This was different. Music and Anne flowed through him, becoming a part of him. This, surely, was what dancing should be. Effortless. Captivating. Bewitching. A world in which only two people existed. He didn’t want ever to let her go.

  A final cord echoed, fading into the background of conversation. In the beat before the orchestra began the next dance someone could have fired a pistol, and Ruan wouldn’t have noticed. The blue-grey eyes of his wife held him fast, the wistful smile on her face enthralled him, struck him dead-on, a shot straight to the heart.

  Until now, this very moment, he’d not understood how a man could make a fool of himself over a woman. The abyss loomed deep and ominous. What next for him but flowers and insipid poetry and him tripping happily to his fate? She’d changed him, Anne had, and he was not at all certain he liked the result. His old life had been perfectly comfortable, with Katie never causing him a moment’s concern. Not one moment. He sometimes forgot Katie for hours on end. Days even. Katie came to mind precisely and only when it was convenient for him to think of her. Not so with Anne. She’d not been long out of his thoughts since Corth Abbey. Devil take it. What sort of man wanted to save himself from his own wife?

  CHAPTER 12