Sin Incarnate (No Rules for Rogues Book 1)

by Isobel Carr

  ‘Been looking everywhere for you.’ He shut the door. ‘We managed to get Audley to stop trying to kill poor Rivenhall, but only barely.’

  He crossed to stand behind her, forearms resting on the back of her chair as he leaned over her. ‘If he figures out Somercote here is the one who absconded with you, we’ll have more black eyes and scraped knuckles to deal with.’

  ‘Better me than whoever tried to shoot her.’ Dauntry’s gaze was locked on Brimstone as the two of them stared each other down. Two dunghill cocks in the same yard.

  ‘You’ll get no argument from me on that front.’

  George let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and took another shaky sip of whisky.

  ‘But George should get back to the party before she’s missed. I’ll take her to her room to change and escort her down. You can claim her from me in an hour or so, and then Layton will take her to dinner. After that—’

  ‘That’s enough.’ George glared up over her shoulder at her friend.

  ‘And after that St Audley can have his turn.’ Dauntry’s voice overrode her objection.

  ‘Right,’ Gabriel said, stepping round the chair and putting out a hand to help her up. ‘You, my dearling, are not to be left alone, Alençon’s orders. And you’re to be escorted all evening only by those he and Glendower have approved.’

  Brimstone took her glass in his free hand and steadied her as she got to her feet. The room swayed like the deck of a boat during a rough Channel crossing.

  Gabriel’s brow knit as she leaned heavily onto his arm. He tossed back what was left of her whisky and handed the empty glass to Dauntry.

  ‘Come along, hoyden.’ He nodded to Dauntry in an almost friendly manner and led her off willy-nilly.

  Chapter Twenty

  A decidedly wicked bit of scandal-broth is being served up by the family of a country squire. The daughter, it seems, has been jilted by a certain recently returned earl.

  Tête-à-Tête, 24 December 1788

  Tired but not at all sleepy, George assisted the dowager countess up the main stairs and handed her over to her maid. In her own room, she found her maid waiting with the last piece of rum cake smuggled up from the kitchens.

  George ate the cake, while Ellen took the copper kettle from the hob beside the fire and emptied it into the basin on the vanity. She allowed Ellen to help her out of her dress, watching the steam rise, tendrils clouding the mirror.

  She slid into her favourite quilted wrapper and sat down before the vanity to wash her face and hands. The hot, wet cloth stung her cheek. Powder had concealed the marks made by the splinters, but they remained there all the same. Unwelcome reminders of the events of the past few weeks.

  Powder, rouge, and kohl washed away, George curled up in front of the fire with Beckford’s The History of the Caliph Vathek. She was almost done with the book. Maybe when she finished she’d be ready for bed?

  She turned page after page, tired eyes skimming over the last of the story:

  Such was, and such should be, the punishment of unrestrained passions and atrocious actions…Thus the Caliph Vathek, who, for the sake of empty pomp and forbidden power, had sullied himself with a thousand crimes, became a prey to grief without end, and remorse without mitigation…

  The final words of the wicked caliph’s story faded away. She turned the last page and stared at the blank verso page, suddenly wide awake, then rose and stepped into her slippers. She flipped through the few volumes on the mantel, but nothing sparked her interest. She wasn’t in the mood for poetry. Not even the randy poems of Donne or the Earl of Rochester. Dildoes and flea bites held little appeal…with a small sigh of disgust, she turned away from the mantel.

  Dauntry was just down the hall. In the Venetian room. He was just down the hall, and there was simply no possibility of sleep tonight. She could have died today. And she could either spend the night fretting about it, or she could allow Dauntry to remind her that she was very much alive.

  Slipping out of her room, she cinched her robe tighter and headed down the hall. The house was dark, but so familiar she didn’t need a candle.

  She reached the door and put her hand to the handle. Light leaked from under the door. He was still awake. She twisted the handle and the door swung silently open. Dauntry glanced up from his seat before the fire. His expression was neither welcoming nor offended. It was wary.

  She shut the door behind her and stood dumbly just inside the room. He closed the book he’d been reading with deliberate precision. As he stood, the fire cast his shadow over the room, flickering over the bed, the wall, her. Casting her into darkness until he stepped towards her.

  The stomach-turning jolt when he touched her told her she’d made the right decision. Bergamot flooded her senses, made her long to bury her nose in his neck. His hands slid over her, arms wrapped around her, locking her tightly against him. His mouth came down on hers, his lips finding hers easily.

  Ivo felt the shiver that ran through George as he kissed her. He pulled her to him, hands sliding around her, down her back, around her ribs, settling at her waist.

  He’d been too wound up to sleep. His mind wouldn’t stop churning, picturing George dead at the base of that big oak. Amber eyes dim before he could reach her. Dead in the mud beside her carriage. Dead in a country inn before he’d ever touched her…

  His whole body was shaking, with need, with desire, with fear that she’d pull away. She stepped back, pulling him along, and came to rest against the door. Ivo leaned in to her and allowed his still unsteady hands to slide down her sides. He gripped her hips, hands clenched in the thick fabric of her robe. He wasn’t about to let her slip away.

  George gave an impatient shove and pulled back from him, her eyes staring up into his. Her gaze was locked on him as clearly as the insistent proof of his desire pressed against her belly.

  If he hesitated, she’d be gone. She was like a bird, tempted to steal a bit of bread from a child’s hand, ready to take flight at even the slightest movement.

  George watched him warily, head slanted back and away from him. He kicked off his slippers, and she smiled, triumphant. Nothing more than a flash of teeth in the moonlight.

  Her hands went to the front of his banyan and loosened the buttons. She pushed it off his shoulders, and he allowed it to slide off and pool at his feet. She grinned at his intake of breath as the warm silk left his body, left him naked in the firelight, unmistakably eager.

  She bit her lip, slid her arms around his neck, and drew him to her. Hands slid into his hair, fisted and pulled. Ivo dragged her to the bed. Hissed as she bit his neck, hard. Her mouth slid down his neck, hot and wet, teeth in play all the way. Without letting go of her he fell back into the enormous curtained bed, sprawled beside her, one leg crossing her hips and holding her in place.

  She kissed him hungrily, tongue twining with his. He slid one hand inside her robe. It was a heavy, quilted wrapper, decidedly in his way. He rolled off her slightly, leaned back on one elbow, chuckling as he tugged at the belt.

  ‘Where did you get this thing?’ He pushed the offending garment open, distracted by her circling one of his nipples lightly with her thumb. Little jolts of lightning were coursing through his body, starting in that nipple and exploding in his cock.

  ‘It’s warm,’ George replied, sliding one foot provocatively along his bare leg. ‘And it’s not as though I was planning on anyone seeing me in it when I packed it.’

  Ivo laughed again at the slightly petulant note in her voice, then returned to the task at hand. Tonight he wasn’t going to rush; he had all the time in the world. Tonight he was not going to be the trembling creature he’d been at Oundale, completely at her mercy. Nor the overly eager lover in her town house. Tonight he was prepared to give as good as he got. Tonight was about making sure she’d never be able to ride away from him again. Never be able to deny him again.

  With her wrapper loosened, there was only one layer more between them, of lawn so
fine it couldn’t hide the peaks of her nipples, or the shadow at the apex of her thighs.

  Never taking his eyes from hers, he ran his hand down the front of her, caressing her breast, circling the slight indentation formed by her bellybutton with his thumb. He straddled her, making sure she could see the rampant state of his cock. Leaned down to kiss her again, pressing that same appendage into her belly.

  Her hands slid down his ribs, circled to his back. She twisted beneath him. Nails grazed his back, her breathing degenerated into short pants.

  Ivo slid his body slowly down hers, hands tracing her curves as he went, mouth following his hands: down her neck, along her collarbone, across her chest to her breasts, where he stopped to suckle through the sheer material of her gown. He nipped at her belly, at her hip bones, slipped one hand up under the hem of her nightgown and pushed it up to her waist as he continued down to her knees, licked the ticklish backs of them before working his way up her thigh. She murmured something incoherent as he parted her thighs and lightly bit the tendon on the inside of her leg.

  George gasped as Dauntry pressed his mouth to her, parting her with his lips and tongue. She moved one hand down to rest lightly on his head, caught up in the sensation.

  She arched, peaked nipples rubbing against the cold, wet fabric of her nightgown. He worked his way slowly, tantalizingly, teasingly up to the throbbing peak near the top of her cleft, locked his mouth over her, teeth clearly evident as he sucked swollen flesh into his mouth.

  In seconds she was mewling, an incoherent flood of sounds dragged from her throat. She couldn’t hold still under his carefully orchestrated assault. Her hips began to twist, her feet strained against the bedclothes.

  Not yet finished, he brought one arm back around her thigh and up over her body, and with his hand splayed out across her belly, held her down. He sucked harder, flicking his tongue over her, pushing his chin against her. The pressure reminding her that soon he’d be inside her. Soon she’d experience this all over again.

  The trace of beard that darkened his cheeks was rubbing her raw. Tomorrow she’d have scrapes all along the insides of her thighs, and she didn’t care. It felt too good to care. It was delicious. As was everything else he was doing.

  But she wanted him inside her.

  Now.

  She clenched one hand in his hair and tried to dislodge him. She yanked, and he reached up with his one free hand and gripped her wrist, tight.

  Her climax was almost upon her. Her feet had begun to tingle. Every ounce of her being was contained in the small bit of flesh on which Dauntry was lavishing all his attention.

  She gave a choked gurgle as her release swept over her and she tried not to cry out. The room flickered and went utterly black for a moment.

  George took a deep, shuddering breath. She shook off his now slack grip, reached down and pulled him up to her by his hair.

  This time, he came willingly, lazily retracing his route with his lips, skimming her body with his hands, taking her nightgown up and over her head. He tossed it away into the dark as she drew him up for a satisfied kiss.

  George kissed him back, tongue pushing past his, and ran her hands down his back, feeling rock-hard muscles. He was holding himself back, and she didn’t want him to. She wanted the second glorious release that his body promised her, but she was loath to take the lead away from him.

  Dauntry was so obviously enjoying asserting himself. And it was wonderful to simply give herself over entirely to someone else. To trust so implicitly.

  He nipped at her earlobe, teased her with his lips, teeth, and tongue. George moved her hips against his, giving him just the slightest bit of encouragement. She could clearly feel the hard length of him against her mons. She brought her knees up slightly, shifting so that he was now pressed against the hot, slick folds he’d so recently been caressing. Play was wonderful, but she was done playing.

  The sudden movement of her hips, and the low moan she gave as he bit her neck, were all that was needed to get him to understand her need. With the slightest readjustment he slid into her with one long, hard thrust, stifling her moan with a deep kiss.

  George locked her feet behind him. Wrapped her arms around him. Held him against her as they established a rhythm. Every thrust filled her, left her gasping.

  He knew exactly how to ride her, how to wind her up into a ball of pure need and desire. He gave an extra little buck of his hips at the end of each thrust, grinding into her.

  She arched beneath him and flung her head back.

  Ivo gave himself over to sensation. To the simple act of two bodies meeting, need and pleasure trumping all else. George was so hot, so wet, he was past coherence anyway.

  If he could just keep her in bed for the rest of their lives everything would be perfect. Here, there wasn’t anything to worry about. Here, he didn’t seem to be able to do anything wrong, and anything she did that shocked him could only be to the good.

  He vaguely felt her nails digging deep into his back. She was whispering softly into his ear, but the words were muffled. He changed the angle of his thrust and suddenly she was crying out beneath him, strangled, near sobs issuing from her. She clenched around him as she found her release again. The added sensation of her climaxing around him was all he need to attain his own, and with a few more deep, rocking thrusts he came and then stilled atop her, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

  Propping himself up on his elbows, he kissed her again. A long, slow, satisfied kiss. He just wanted to lie there with her, in the small, secure confines of his room. To keep her where she was safe.

  Beneath him she sighed, not sadly, but contentedly. She kissed him back, not allowing him to roll off her when he attempted to do so. She held him in place, thighs strong from years of riding, easily able to keep him where he was.

  ‘Aren’t I a bit heavy?’ He was crushing her down into the bed. She couldn’t be comfortable.

  ‘Not at all.’ She gave him a soft, lips-only kiss. ‘This is one of my favourite things in the world.’

  ‘Well then…’ Ivo returned to kissing her. After a few more minutes, he pulled himself off her despite her protests, reached out to twitch the bed curtains shut, and settled back in, wrapping himself around George so that they drifted off entwined, the comforter pulled up nearly over their heads.

  It was barely dawn when the sound of the tweeny building the fire woke George. Her eyes snapped open, and Ivo could see the exact moment when she remembered where she was. He’d been awake for what seemed like hours. Just lying there, watching her in the dim half-light. They were lying facing one another, less than a foot apart on the pillow. He smiled and lifted one finger to her lips.

  She opened her mouth and sucked his finger in, tongue moving over and around it. Ivo grimaced. She knew he couldn’t respond, not with the maid busy stoking the fire.

  He’d been enjoying watching her sleep, studying the faint spray of freckles that dusted her nose, the curves of her cheekbones and lips. He’d never really seen her when she was still. George was never still. Asleep, she appeared soft, almost girlish. The illusion vanished as soon as her eyes opened. Asleep, she was merely pretty. Awake, she was magnetic.

  The maid finished laying the morning fire and slipped quietly out of the room, only the faint sound of the door handle turning to alert them that she’d left.

  Dauntry’s smile slowly warmed, one side sliding up wickedly. George bit down on his finger slightly and he yanked his hand away. She laughed as he rolled her underneath him, and with what seemed like no effort at all, positioned himself between her thighs. With one quick thrust he was inside her, and then he was moving, sending chills all the way down to her toes.

  It was totally different than what they’d just done the night before. Thrilling, intense, and utterly primitive. George quickly found her release, was driven to it again before Dauntry reached his own, spilling himself into her with one final, drawn-out thrust.

  They lingered in bed, curled up sleepily toget
her, Dauntry lightly running one hand possessively up and down her back, until George, sadly practical, forced herself to move. She pushed back the bed curtains, clambered out, and began looking for her nightgown and robe.

  Ivo groaned and propped himself up on his elbows to watch her. Light leaked through a gap in the curtains, caressed his skin, caught the deep red highlights of his hair as it spilt over his shoulder and trailed down his chest.

  She pulled on her nightgown and robe. Dauntry climbed out behind her and slipped into his banyan.

  ‘Time to go?’ He ran his fingers though his hair, pulling out tangles.

  ‘Time to go.’ George pushed her feet into her slippers and cinched up her robe. ‘Peek out and make sure the hall is empty.’

  Dauntry opened his door, glanced up and down the hall, pulled her in for one last, hard kiss, and then thrust her out the door. George hurried down the hall to her own room and collapsed into one of the chairs near the fireplace.

  Crawling back into bed, Ivo smiled to himself. He was forgiven. That was all that mattered at the moment. She’d come to him and she’d held nothing back. It hadn’t taken six nights…it had only taken three. Four, if he was forced to count the disastrous evening after the Devonshires’ ball.

  If he could just convince himself that what had happened yesterday was nothing more than an accident, the world would be perfect.

  An engagement would allow him to keep her close, to pack her off to Ashcombe Park if necessary. It might even serve to scare off whoever it was that was trying to kill her. Regardless, he’d feel better with her safely under his protection both publicly and privately.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  We are sorry at this time of year to continually sound the gong of doom, but it seems to be the way of things. A certain Mrs P— appears to have exchanged her viscount for a mere baronet.