Lord of Deceit (Heiress Games Book 2)

by Sara Ramsey

  “You know that if I want to win Maidenstone, I’ll have to marry someone.”

  He nodded. “It’s why I’ve come to say goodbye.”

  “I’m not ready to say goodbye yet,” she said, hating how plaintive her voice sounded.

  He had been calm, almost uncaring, throughout their exchange. But his eyes darkened. Something unhappy played there, revealing turmoil that she was sure he didn’t want her to see.

  “It’s for the best, Octavia,” he said gently. “If it is meant to be, we may find each other again. But at the moment, I can only hurt your chances.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You know Ferguson….”

  She interrupted him. “Ferguson and Lucy and Maidenstone can go to the devil. I don’t believe that you’re leaving me because of them. And I don’t believe it’s for my own good. You’re running away, aren’t you?”

  “No. I’m protecting you.”

  “Protecting me or protecting yourself?”

  He raked a hand through his hair. “Let’s not make this difficult.”

  Something inside her snapped. She went from sadness to white-hot rage in the time it took to take a breath. “‘Let’s not make this difficult?’” she repeated. “You think it’s easy for me to let you walk out that door and then go marry someone else just so I can inherit a bloody house?”

  He knew he’d made a mistake. He held up his hands. “No. Of course not. This was never going to be easy — this is why we shouldn’t have gotten involved with each other.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “So you regret making love to me. Is that what this is?”

  “No,” he said. That denial, at least, was emphatic.

  “Then what is it? You don’t want to be associated with my ruined reputation? You have some other woman waiting for you?”

  “No,” he said again.

  There was a broken, strangled sound to his voice, like all he could do was tell her that she was wrong — without being able to find the words to tell her what he actually felt.

  A bit of her anger died. She was upset, but it wasn’t pure rage anymore. She knew all about not being able to say, or even understand, what she felt — hadn’t she been equally incapable of dealing with Lucy?

  So she paused and took a breath. Then another, and another, until her heart stopped racing. When she could finally speak, she said, “Why did you say last night that you can’t love me?”

  She’d found the right question. She knew it in the way he closed his eyes. Usually, he maintained eye contact, trying to build trust.

  Even when he opened his eyes, he looked away. He picked up the opera glasses she’d set aside, twirling them around, as though compelled to do something with his hands. Finally, staring down at the glasses, he said, “It’s not that I couldn’t. You would be the easiest woman in the world for me to love.”

  His voice still sounded broken — too broken for her heart to place any faith in. Too broken for her to take any joy from it, or believe that his words were a declaration.

  “Then is it something else?” she asked carefully.

  He gestured at the mementos scattered around them. “Look at all these people you trusted, Octavia. Was it worth it? Was their temporary friendship worth the way they shunned you after you were ruined?”

  She took the opera glasses from him and tossed them into the trunk. “What do they have to do with us?”

  “Nothing. Or everything. None of it lasts, Octavia. Love is a fairy tale. People betray you in the end. They may say they care, but you never know when they’ll leave you in pursuit of something else.”

  She turned back to the fire, leaning back with her hands braced on the floor behind her. He was breaking her heart — and she realized, then, that her feelings for him were deeper than she had thought.

  She didn’t feel like crying for herself, or for what he was doing to her.

  She felt like crying for him, and whatever had happened to turn him into the man he’d become. She felt like crying for the stunted, empty life he had accepted for himself — and the wonderful, love-filled life that his fear was forcing him to sacrifice.

  She couldn’t stop the tears from gathering in her eyes, nor could she keep them from falling. He deserved more than he was letting himself have.

  But she deserved more, too.

  He put his arm around her. She tilted her head to rest it on his shoulder. They sat there for awhile, silent but for the crackling of dying logs in the fireplace.

  There were no easy answers. It was quite possible there were no answers at all. Sometimes people were too broken, and sometimes risks were too great to take.

  But she felt safe. She felt safe, sitting alone with him — safe enough to let her tears flow, without needing Madame Octavia’s façade. Safe even though he thought the only way to protect her was to leave her. Safe even though she loved a man who might never be able to love her back.

  She loved him. It was the first time she’d allowed herself to think those words. She had tried so hard to pretend that she could be casual about this — that she could treat him like a courtesan would treat a temporary lover. And for awhile, the lie had worked, and she had enjoyed him more than she’d ever enjoyed anyone.

  But it wasn’t casual. Whatever this was, her heart whispered that it was worth a risk.

  She brushed her tears aside, turned, and kissed him.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  He was supposed to say goodbye to her. But he was a man lost in the wilderness, and her kiss felt so damned good — like balm over the worst of his wounds.

  She wrapped her arms around him. He pulled her into his lap, hiking her nightrail up, skimming up her leg, reveling in the feel of skin and fragile muslin. He wouldn’t go farther than that, not without an invitation — he didn’t know what she wanted, and whether it extended beyond a kiss.

  Maybe this was a goodbye kiss, and he was never going to have this moment again.

  That’s what he wanted, right? To say goodbye to her?

  But he was distracted by her mouth and the delicious feel of her bottom in his lap. He slid a hand up to her breast, heavy and perfect in his palm. He ran his thumb over her nipple, and she shifted in his lap, and it was all too much — this woman he was supposed to be giving up.

  She pushed him onto his back. “It looks like I’ve captured you, pirate,” she said. There were tear streaks on her cheeks and her eyelashes were wet, but the grin on her face said she wanted this. It was confusing and wild and complicated — all the things she was.

  All the things she could be, if he didn’t hold her back from what she deserved.

  “I’ll survive,” he said. “Do your worst.”

  She kicked the trunk away from them, tossing slippers and ostrich feathers and other bits of clothing aside to make room for what she was about to do. “Careful what you wish for, love.”

  It was the first time he’d heard that word from her. He’d said it to her before, thoughtlessly — the endearment had never meant anything to him when he’d used it with others. Had she felt like this, hearing it from him? Wondering, suddenly, if she meant it? Wanting her to mean it?

  He sat up, but she settled into his lap again, keeping him pinned. She threaded her fingers through his cravat, loosening the knot and pulling it from his neck in a slow, smooth gesture. Then she unbuttoned his jacket and pushed it off his shoulders.

  “Octavia,” he started to say. He needed to stop her. They weren’t supposed to do this, and he needed to leave her before she got hurt.

  “You had your fantasy the other night. It’s only fair to return the favor.”

  He pulled his arms from his jacket sleeves so that he could grab her hands, but she was already working on his waistcoat. “I didn’t get to see you properly the other night,” she said, undoing his buttons. “You saw every inch of me. It’s my turn.”

  He helped her remove the waistcoat. And he pulled his shirt over his head himself. But when she started to touch his chest, he
grabbed her wrists. “You know this doesn’t change anything,” he said. “If we do this, we still have to say goodbye at the end.”

  He didn’t know whether he was reminding her or himself. She nodded. “Call this a farewell present, if that helps put you in the proper frame of mind.”

  It didn’t, not really. But he stopped fighting it. He dropped her wrists. “Do with me what you will, your majesty.”

  She smiled, kissing the corner of his mouth. She trailed kisses to his ear, where she whispered, “I’ll miss you, Rafe.”

  Then she slid her hand down his breastbone, letting her fingers splay over his heart. She sat back, as though she wanted to memorize everything she saw — her pale hand pressed against the faded remnants of his Spanish tan. The way her fingers spread over the hard planes of his muscled chest. The way his nipples looked, flatter than hers — but entirely sensitive, when she leaned in and licked one.

  He drew a breath as her tongue toyed with him. It was her fantasy, but he still slipped his hand into her hair, tugging at the ribbon that held her braid together and unraveling the plaits. She’d been ready for bed when he had come into the room, her hair contained — but if this was their last night, he wanted it all.

  She let her hand drop lower. Her fingers traced over the ridges of his abdomen. He wasn’t as sculpted as he had been in Spain, when he’d spent his days riding or running, but he was still vain enough to be pleased when she whispered, “You’re so beautiful. I could spend days touching you and it wouldn’t be enough.”

  She pushed him down again, flat onto his back. When she straddled him, her nightrail rode up her thighs. He knew she was bare underneath it — it was too flimsy to fully obscure his view of the dark thatch of curls between her legs, or the rosy-hued nipples that had already hardened for him. All that separated his achingly hard cock from her was his breeches, which he wanted to remove immediately.

  She rubbed herself over him, and he groaned. But she didn’t move to free him. “Do you know what I’ll miss about you?” she asked.

  “Torturing me?”

  Her wicked laugh went straight to his groin. “Yes. But it’s a longer list than that.”

  She leaned down and kissed him. It was slow, and hot, and wet, and somehow greedy — as though she wanted to consume him completely. “I’ll miss your mouth,” she murmured, her nose grazing his in an intimate little gesture that somehow rocked him. “I’ll miss your tongue for how it can make me beg. But I’ll miss your mouth for the thousand different times you’ve made me laugh.”

  He let his hands go to her hips. He needed an anchor. She rubbed against him again, tormenting him — or tormenting herself. She gasped a little as she made contact with the hard ridge of his cock. But it wasn’t enough to distract her, not yet. She leaned over him, giving him a perfect view down the valley between her breasts as she kissed his forehead.

  “I’ll miss your mind,” she said, even though she was well on the way to making him mindless. “You’re the most clever man I’ve met, Rafe. Maybe too clever for your own good, with all the ways you’ve thought of that this could go wrong.”

  He wanted to bring her back to the pleasure of this moment, not the way she was suddenly turning it into a funeral. He leaned up to kiss one of her breasts, drawing the nipple into his mouth with his teeth. His tongue dampened the thin fabric, abrading her as he kissed and sucked. She moaned a little. Her hand came to the back of his head as though she wanted to keep him there.

  But she pulled away. She bracketed his head with her hands, looking into his eyes.

  He saw love in hers — all the love he ever could have wanted. All the love he had ever needed.

  She kissed his eyes closed. “I’ll miss your eyes, Rafe. You see everything, don’t you? You’re the only man who has seen this much of me — my body and my soul.”

  She gently eased him onto his back again. He left his eyes closed, not sure he could bear to see more of her than he already had. She slid down, slowly, teasing him again with her body over his manhood, and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, where her head had rested earlier. “I’ll miss your arms and the way you hold me when I need you to.”

  Then a kiss to his hand, mirroring the way he always kissed hers. “I’ll miss the way you can kiss my hand in a ballroom and make it feel like we’re making love in front of everyone in the world.”

  Then, sliding lower still, she knelt between his legs and trailed kisses down his chest. “I’ll miss your cock,” she whispered, finally unfastening the first button. “I would have taken it a thousand times if you’d let me.”

  It was all too much. His breath was ragged and his heart was breaking — he didn’t know his heart could break, but that had to be what this was, all the need and pain and panic and loss.

  When she’d freed him, she kissed the head of his cock, right over the slit where moisture already gathered for her. She licked it away, swirling her tongue around him like she planned to worship him.

  But Octavia deserved more. So much more than him, and all his lies and all his doubts. He wasn’t someone she should worship.

  He sat up suddenly and flipped her onto her back. She laughed, low and throaty, as he shoved her nightrail up to her waist. “I wondered how long you were going to let me stay on top,” she said.

  He liked being ridden by a woman. On another night, he would have lain back and enjoyed the view. But not tonight. He slid a finger between her folds. “I want to give you something better than the other night.”

  She was already slick. She shifted her hips, tilting up to accommodate him, to ask for more. He drew his thumb in slow, lazy circles over her clitoris. He slid another finger inside her, stroking, stretching — making sure she was ready this time, that he wouldn’t leave her with a memory of physical pain to go along with the rest of their goodbye.

  Finally, slowly, he guided himself inside her. She was still impossibly tight, but she relaxed around him. She gasped as he sheathed himself to the hilt — but there was no pain in the sound.

  He kissed her, languorously at first, letting her get used to the feel of him inside her. But when she squeezed her core around him, he nearly lost himself.

  His kiss turned hungrier. He pulled back, then rocked forward again, settling into a slow, steady rhythm. He needed to come — he was already aching to come. But he needed even more to make this good for her.

  But again, she didn’t make him work for it. She was too enthusiastic for games, too eager for him to make herself hold out. She moaned as he touched the juncture between her legs, stroking and teasing even as he plunged into her. She wrapped her legs around him.

  And when she came, arching up against him with a muffled cry, his name was on her lips.

  He buried his face in the curve of her neck, straining not to follow her into bliss. He pulled out as soon as she’d fallen back to the floor, spilling his seed on her belly.

  Maybe it was a primal urge, marking her like that when he couldn’t come inside her. After he’d collapsed, and then after he’d regained his breathing, and then after he’d regained his mind, he grabbed his cravat from the floor and carefully cleaned her skin.

  She still hadn’t said a word, other than his name. But when he was done, she sat up and kissed him again.

  It was slow and tender and sweet.

  It felt like goodbye.

  “I don’t have to miss you,” she whispered. Her voice was rough, as though the words had been dragged from her — as though she knew better than to say them, but couldn’t help herself. “You could stay.”

  He saw the future in her dark eyes. His future. Their future. Together, they might build the kind of life he thought was a fairy tale — become one of those rare couples who grew old and loved each other better every day that they were together.

  But Fortune usually didn’t work out like that. And there was a different possible future in her eyes — the one where she someday realized that she was better than him, and left him because of it.

 
He knew he was being irrational. She loved him — he was sure of it, even though she hadn’t said it. She was loyal, fierce and sweet at the same time, and so bloody strong. If she made a vow to him, she would keep it.

  But from what he remembered of his parents, they had been loyal and sweet when he was younger. What if the old adage was true — that he would become his father and marry his mother? What if he hurt her and she left him? What if she regretted giving up Maidenstone for him?

  It would already cut his heart out, saying goodbye to her tonight. That pain was still bearable. It wouldn’t be if he let their love grow any deeper.

  It was time for the coup de grace.

  “I can’t stay. And you wouldn’t want me to if you really knew me.”

  Octavia frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “I was using you. I needed to find out Somerville’s weaknesses. Seducing you seemed like the easiest course of action.”

  Her frown deepened. “Why would you care about Somerville?”

  “Why did you want to ruin Lucy’s party? It was revenge — petty, evil, entirely necessary revenge. He led Serena into thinking he wanted to marry her, then jilted her.”

  “He did Serena a favor by not marrying her,” Octavia said.

  She wasn’t mad yet. He’d seen her temper — she should have already flared up by now. But she looked at him with something sad and serious in her eyes, as though she had expected this.

  He drove the point home. “I was responsible for the caricatures against him this spring.”

  “Were you?”

  She paused. He thought this would be the moment when her anger ignited.

  Instead, she smirked. “If you were looking for proof that this was meant to be, you have it. I never would have come to Maidenstone if Somerville hadn’t tossed me out. Which means, ultimately, you brought me upon yourself.”

  His heart kept breaking. He had to make her see that she was better off without him.

  “This isn’t the first time I’ve used a woman like this, you know. Spanish, Portuguese, French, English — it doesn’t matter the language. You all give up your secrets in the end, when you believe yourself to be in love.”