Lord Ruin

by Carolyn Jewel

  With each passing day he wanted her more desperately. He wanted to think they had forged a respectful friendship, a first for him, having the sort of friendship with a woman that he had with Devon or Aldreth. But her accusation that he wanted to break her to him became a gnat at his ear, persistent, refusing to be ignored. She was right. He did want that, and one did not do such a thing to a friend. Anne was his friend. If he was to have her love, he must come by it honestly so that when he had it, he would keep it safe.

  Anne slept on. After a minute or so longer of him staring at her form in the dark, she stirred and lifted her head from the pillow. In a soft, lazy voice she said, “Cynssyr?”

  “Yes.” His body tingled, anticipating his desire for her.

  She slipped from the bed and moved in front of him, a slender, white-clad shape. Her spectacles gleamed in the dimness. Though her figure was but faintly suggested, he knew what he would find if he undressed her. Full breasts, long legs, the swell of feminine hips. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. His body reacted to the image. She was like a drug to him, he thought. No opium eater could be more in thrall to his mistress drug than he was to Anne.

  “Is aught well?”

  “Castlereagh will go to Belgium.”

  “An apt choice.”

  “I came to make love to you.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s useless unless you want me.”

  She came close. Stood inches from him. “You are my husband,” she said in her quiet, reasonable voice.

  “Scores of wives do not want their husbands.”

  “There are husbands who do not want their wives.”

  “I am not one of those men, Anne. You are more than any husband could want in a wife.” He trailed a finger along the line of her jaw. “Kind. Intelligent. Clever with a budget. Resourceful. There’s only one thing you’re not.”

  “Beautiful,” she said. “I never cared before, but now I do. I wish I were.”

  He held back a flash of anger. “Ordinary.”

  “Yes. I am quite ordinary.”

  “It’s been said a woman is not a beauty until I have pronounced her so.”

  “You are a connoisseur.”

  “I tell you now, of all the women I have known, you are the only one who deserves to be called a beauty. Only you, Anne. No other.” God help him. He meant every word. With a start, he realized he’d put a hand on her belly. His fingers spread between her hips as if measuring. “You are so miserably ill.”

  “Mary assures me it will pass.”

  He stroked her belly. “Ah,” he said, thinking he detected a swelling. “Are you quickening?”

  She put a hand over his. “It’s too early for that.”

  He thought she did not sound entirely certain of her denial. They stood a foot or two apart. Not particularly near, but intimate all the same because of his hand on her and hers over his. “Make love with me, Anne. Because you want me. Not because I’m your husband.” Desperate to bridge the widening chasm between them he said, “Or must I add disobedient to my list of your failings?”

  At first, she did and said nothing. His request shocked her, he thought. Perhaps even appalled her. But, then she closed the distance between them. Since he had come to her wearing only his robe, when she reached for him, the silk separated, and her palm touched his naked torso. “You’re wrong about me.”

  “I am judge and jury both. You are a beauty.”

  “I meant,” she said, laughing a little, “that I am obedient.” The room felt suddenly very small. “What would please you?” she asked in a tiny voice.

  Ruan didn’t move. He hadn’t expected this. Not at all. She’d never asked before, just done what he showed her or asked her to do. “Your mouth again,” he said. “Your mouth hot and wet around my cock. Your lips on me everywhere you can reach.” Her palm stayed flat against his chest until he took her hand in one of his and kissed the tips of her fingers. “Your beautiful backside,” he said. “Your breasts beneath my hands. Your legs, your knees, your arms. Most of all, I want what’s inside you. I want all that passion let out and overwhelming us both.”

  “Ruan,” she whispered, although she might have said Lord Ruin.

  He went absolutely still when she freed her hand and stroked his naked chest again, sliding her palm so that she no longer touched any part of his robe. Her hand moved slowly, experimentally. For once, his thoughts didn’t leap to his pleasure but instead lingered in the momentous present. The pressure of her hand turned his blood to fire.

  “Your skin is warm.”

  “Yes, love.”

  Her fingers slid upward. In the faint light, her spectacles flashed once. He was going up in flames. He knew it and fought it because he wanted her to control their passion. He closed his eyes and immediately felt sensations doubled. Her fingertip reached his nipple and glided over it.

  “Should I stop?”

  “Christ, no,” he said, breathless with the effort of holding himself in check. She had to have time. Time to want him. Time to accept what she felt and give in to it.

  The silk of his robe slid over his shoulders. Both her hands touched him now. Liquid heat poured into him. Every part of him was sensitized to the moment. Slowly, her hands moved over him, tracing along his ribs and the muscles of his side, upward to his heart. He balanced at the edge of control, quivering with the effort of his restraint.

  A groan escaped his tight shut mouth. Anne increased the pressure of her fingers over him and drew him that much closer to the inferno. His hands hung clenched at his sides, but when she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to him he could not help himself. He grasped her head and guided her to his nipple. “Here.” His voice sounded gruff, but her tongue flicked out. “Sweet Christ, yes.” She drew back and, beyond anything but desire, he cupped the side of her breast.

  “Oh.”

  “If Merchant or anyone else knocks on the door,” he ground out, “there will be no reply.” She shook her head, and blast it, he did not know what that meant. Agreement? Disagreement? “Hold nothing back, Anne. Shout if you wish. Scream my name. Caress me however you desire. I promise I’ll do the same.”

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  “Excellent.” Coming in for a kiss, he bumped his cheek on her spectacles. None too gently, he reached for them.

  “Please,” she said breathlessly, taking them from him, fearing, and rightly, that he might toss them across the room.

  He spent all of half a second watching her walk to the dresser. She gasped when he put his palms on the dresser top, one on either side of her to effectively trap her. “Anne,” he said, choking with desire. “Anne.” The spectacles clattered onto the tabletop. “My beauty, Anne.”

  Time stopped, filled with nothing but silence and the tension he felt in her body. Then, she leaned back and gathered her nightdress in both hands. As she raised it, his body thrummed in anticipation, tingling, hardening, but he did not touch her until she’d brought it over her head and let it fall to the floor. He covered her breasts with both his hands. “You are exquisite.” Fire raged in him, shot through his veins when she leaned against him, reaching back to stroke the side of his legs. Her nipples peaked and became pebble hard under his fingers. A low moan came from her throat. Memories of Corth Abbey rushed back; Her supple body, soothing hands, and a wickedly tender mouth. Lord Almighty, what a mouth. He’d exploded into her.

  “I want you inside me,” she whispered. “Now. With us standing just so.”

  He separated her cheeks with the palms of his hands and came into her, instantly at a peak of unendurable tension. Forcing himself to do nothing, he savored the heat that enveloped him, the shiver of fire that coursed through him. Only when he was sure he wouldn’t lose himself entirely did he pull her hips hard against him, wanting the feel of her backside. She made that sound again, that drawn out “oh” that was half groan, half moan and without a drop of protest. She accepted him easily despite being tight inside. He could see in the dresser mirror her
pale torso and his own body behind hers, but mostly he felt his engorged sex moving in her, the thrill of a too-rapidly approaching orgasm.

  Now, that would be disaster. He subdued the impulse to drive into her, to satisfy his own sexual urges. Instead, he leaned against her, one hand around her waist and slipping upward, the other seeking between her legs, his fingers curling in crisp hair. She had to support her weight and some of his with both her hands flat on the dresser top. He meant to bring her to climax before he took his pleasure and that was fast seeming an impossibility especially when she matched the circling of his hips, her pressure outward against his inward. She made an inarticulate cry when, summoning the absolute last shred of control he possessed, he withdrew from her.

  She shivered at the loss of his warmth then turned around, breath coming rapidly. Eyes of dark-blue smoke hinted at the fire within. With him standing just inches from her, he could feel desire coming off her in waves. He was at the brink himself. A mass of dawn-lit hair fell over her shoulder, and he pushed it back.

  “It’s not too fast, is it?” he forced himself to ask. “I’ll slow down if you think so.” He wondered if it would kill him if she said yes. But she shook her head. “Good.” Too close to release himself, he knew the pain of his denial now would only double his pleasure later. He sank to his knees, got her to spread her thighs and pressed his mouth to her. It didn’t take long.

  She convulsed, crying out, “Dear God, Cynssyr!”

  Eventually, she simply collapsed. He had by then regained some of his self-possession, though the bed seemed altogether too far away. Her fainting couch was much closer, easily within reach. He got them both onto it. He was Lord Ruin, a man expert in the seduction of women, and he called on every ounce of his fabled finesse so that Anne would be bound to him. Only him.

  She met all of his passion and more. She cupped his behind, pulled him closer to her as she arched toward him, seeking and offering at one and the same time. Sweat beaded on their skin. His belly slid easily over hers as they found the rhythm of mutual need. Her face was a study in passion, her mouth slack at the edges. All that was lacking from his fantasy was her spectacles. He regretted having made her take them off. A slow, forward circle of his pelvis against her made her moan and bow upward. Her knees bent on either side of his hips, her hands gripped his forearms while he watched her climax with gratifying intensity. He gathered her into his arms and carried her to bed. She fell asleep in his embrace, with his heart beating slow and steady against the curve of her back.

  The experience, a lightness of spirit, still resonated with him the next day when he managed to leave Whitehall early enough to attend one of Anne’s at-homes. Ruan slipped quietly into the drawing room. Enough people crowded the room that the feat was quite possible. Leaning against the wall, he crossed one foot over his ankle and his arms over his chest, content to surreptitiously watch Anne for the few moments he managed to stand unobserved. Several gentlemen, among them Julian Durling and Thrale, engaged in lively conversation with her, the men holding hats and riding whips to satisfy the social fiction of a brief visit. Even Emily, the Divine Sinclair, rarely laid claim to a greater number of fascinated gentlemen.

  Though Anne smiled frequently, he soon noticed a certain tension in her shoulders that suggested discomfort. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and slowly waved an ivory fan under her chin. Her gown of peach sarcenet and satin lent such feeble color to her complexion, odds were good she wasn’t feeling well. Lord Sather joined the circle, completing a veritable wall around her. He caught only a glimpse of her fan quickly moving, a flash of peach and ivory.

  Intending to rescue her, Ruan left his place against the wall and was promptly waylaid by Lady Prescott. As he watched over her shoulder, the throng of men around Anne parted and she appeared, walking urgently toward the door. Seconds later, a man whose face Ruan could not see peeled away from the circle and strolled out. The man, whoever he was, stood in the doorway, peering down the hall before walking out. He didn’t turn toward the stairs but further down the hall.

  CHAPTER 25

  “Excuse me, Julia,” he said to Lady Prescott. “I need a word with my wife, and I see she’s just left.”

  “Not the first time I’ve seen her suddenly absent herself.” One side of her mouth lifted. “Is she perhaps...?”

  “Shy?” he supplied, straight-faced. “Why, yes, she is.”

  As he bowed, she murmured, “Such a virile man you are. Are you certain you wouldn’t...?” She finished the sentence with a tiny lift of her eyebrows. “For old time’s sake?”

  “No. Forgive me, no.”

  Ruan pushed his way though the crowded room to the hallway. He saw no one. Not Anne. Not the man who’d followed her. If Anne were ill as he suspected, she’d not have gone far. He scanned the hall. No open doors. The nearest room was the Red Salon, seldom used since his mother had decamped to Hampstead Heath some years before. He opened the door. The scene registered instantly and yet seemed to last forever: Anne with her back not quite opposite him, bent over a basin and heaving up the contents of her stomach. A man walking toward her. Anne moaning and pressing a hand to her stomach. Near the basin stood a washbowl and near that a stack of towels. “Oh, God,” she said, and lost her stomach again. The man reaching for one of the towels, stretching it to its full length.

  He didn’t think he’d ever moved so fast in his life. In one movement he crossed the room, grabbing the man and whirling him around. Ruan slammed a fist into his face and let momentum send him crashing to the floor. Anne shrieked once, very briefly, then had herself under control.

  Still sprawled on the floor and holding a hand to his cheek, Julian Durling said, “Look here, Cynssyr. It’s not what you’re thinking. Not at all.”

  “What are you doing here?” Anne said to Durling.

  “Yes,” Ruan said. “I am sure you won’t mind explaining yourself.”

  Durling rose gingerly to his feet and with a look at Ruan handed her the towel he clutched. “I should much rather go home. If you don’t mind.” He stumbled when Ruan pushed him to a chair far opposite from Anne. “This is an outrage.”

  “My sentiments as well.”

  “There’s a perfectly innocent explanation, I assure you.”

  “You are at leisure to provide it.”

  Durling scowled and made a show of straightening his clothes. “Perfectly good coat ruined,” he muttered. “Are you feeling better, Duchess?”

  She squeezed the towel and nodded at Ruan. “I didn’t know he was here. Nor you, Cynssyr.”

  “I saw him follow you.”

  “Why?” She asked the question of Durling.

  “I’m waiting,” Ruan said, leaning against the fireplace mantel like a cat ready to pounce. “For your innocent explanation.”

  Durling gave Anne a pleading look. “Under the circumstances, I didn’t dare speak with you directly, Cynssyr. Not after you had that hulking great footman throw me out on my ar—”

  Fire leapt to those peridot eyes. “I’ll thank you to mind your language.”

  “Well, yes.” Durling coughed. “Of course. You know what I mean.”

  “He threw you out of—What are you talking about?”

  “Told me he didn’t like the way I looked at you.”

  As usual, Cynssyr’s impassive face gave away nothing. He stood by the fireplace, one arm on the mantle. Durling, on the other hand, was amused.

  “You’re a handsome woman, duchess,” Durling said, shaking his blonde curls, “and if your husband goes about threatening every man who admires you, he’ll have to step down from Parliament to have the time. I’ve every reason to fear him. The man shot Wilberfoss who was supposed to be his brother-in-law. He’d bloody well kill me for wanting to speak with you when twice now he’s told me not to. He was bound to get the wrong idea. And he has.”

  “Twice?”

  “Just start explaining,” Ruan said gruffly.

  “The duchess is in danger.”


  Ruan pushed off the mantel. “What do you mean?” Watching him, Anne thought she wouldn’t care to be on the receiving end of that stare. The pale eyes glittered with an unsettling light.

  “Played cards night before last. Least I think it was then. Dice too, though my luck with dice has always been wretched.”

  “Where?”

  “Does it make a difference?”

  “Yes.”

  “In a place a gentleman should not frequent.”

  Ruan leaned an arm on the fireplace mantle again. “A name, Durling, if you would be so kind.” Had she not come to know him, Anne might have thought her husband utterly at ease. But she knew he was not.

  Durling swallowed hard. “The Three Swans.”

  “I know of it.”

  “As I said, not a place a gentleman should frequent.” He fingered his cheek, found the rising bruise and shuddered.

  “It is not.”

  “On my honor, your grace, I shall never go there again. I do beg your forgiveness, duchess, for being indelicate in your presence.” He regained a bit of his indolence. Her father would have called him one of those damned fops. “Your husband is such a bear. However do you manage him?”

  Ruan took a step forward, hands clenched.

  “Cynssyr,” Anne said. “Please.”

  “You’re a lovely woman,” Durling said. “And loyal, too. But I adore you anyway.” He threw up his hands with mock horror when Ruan scowled. “I refer, of course, to that most noble emotion such as a brother feels toward his sister.”

  She had to smile. “And when you are not too much the Dandy, I do like you. As a sister would a brother.”