by Sharon Page
“You sound so embarrassed, angel,” he said mildly. “What I want you to do is find one you like, then describe it to me.”
“I don’t know … I don’t think I could do such a thing,” she whispered shyly.
Devon begged her to give in. Finally she sighed. “All right, Devon. I will find one I like and then I’ll describe it to you.”
A dozen images flitted through his head. Which would she choose? She had admitted she’d never had an orgasm before, but she must have had fantasies. Tapping into them would make this a delicious session of lovemaking for her. He wanted to find out what they were.
Would it be a man performing cunnilingus on a woman? He knew she had not enjoyed that at first, but she seemed to like it now. Would it be an orgy? A woman commanding two men to pleasure her? Lovemaking in an exotic location—like the back of a horse, an open carriage in the middle of Hyde Park, or a bathtub filled with steamy water?
Any of his other mistresses would have picked something they thought he’d like. But he suspected Cerise would do as he asked and reveal what she found intensely erotic.
“This one.”
His heart was hammering. “Which is it?”
“You know, I had no idea what gentlemen truly fantasize about. This book is very educational. But this picture is my favorite so far.”
Educational. Dear God. “Angel, tell me which one.” His voice sounded like a hoarse rasp.
“Of course, I am cheating—”
“Angel.” He didn’t care if she was. This was supposed to be playful. He’d never imagined he would be on the brink of going up in flames, hungering to know what she would say.
“I’m cheating because this picture is actually made up of four vignettes. I think it is a series about the adventures of an earl’s son and the redheaded courtesan who has turned him into a quivering mass of desire.”
That made him smile. “What man wouldn’t want to be turned into a quivering mass of lust?”
“Of course, it appears he takes his revenge,” she went on blithely. “He turns her over his knee and spanks her bare bottom.”
Those words, in her sensual voice, had his erection bucking, his heart thundering. “They sound like us. Should I punish you now, as you suggested earlier? Turning you over my knee?”
“I don’t know. Wouldn’t it hurt … to be spanked?”
“Not if done playfully. There will never be fear or pain between us, I promise. Now tell me about the pictures.”
“Mmm. In the first one, her ardent admirer is lying beneath her on the carpet of the … oh, the library. He can see up her skirt. Her dress is far too small—her bosom is spilling over the top. In the next picture—”
Devon never heard what took place in the next drawing. He drew Cerise with him to the floor, onto his carpet. He rolled her onto her back. Something thudded to the floor—it had to be the book. He rained kisses on her hot lips and the swells of her warm breasts. And he slid deep inside her, into her welcoming heat. Then he flipped them over, so he was the one on the floor.
He thrust upward and she drove down to meet him. Her arms wrapped around his neck. Her moans mixed with his grunts, growing louder and louder. And finally she gripped his shoulder hard, bounced madly on him, and cried, “I’m coming.”
Those two words in her breathy voice finished him. His climax roared through him. He’d never known anything so intense. He shouted his ecstasy, which a man did only when he’d been pleasured beyond control. When his body finally stopped pulsing from his climax, he flopped back in exhaustion.
“Goodness,” she murmured. “That was even better than the pictures.”
Anne was quivering on top of Devon, so weak from pleasure she was ready to collapse. She slid to the carpet to lie at his side. She wanted to laugh, dance, spin circles. But she was too weak. And now she knew why Devon had rolled onto his back and insisted she ride him. Carpets were scratchy. It had been a sweet and gentlemanly thing to do.
“We should move,” he said, low-voiced, “before we fall asleep here.”
“I wouldn’t mind that. It would mean I would be sleeping at your side.”
He swiftly sat up, then got to his feet. She had pushed too hard; now she regretted it. “If you need me to read to you tonight, Devon, I will be happy to do it. Or happy to describe any erotic picture you desire instead.”
His laugh was gruff. “Angel, you are indeed an angel. I am so tempted to never let you go.”
Her heart gave a tug. What if—No, gentlemen eventually tired of their mistresses. She swallowed hard. Foolishly, her eyes had teared at his sweet words. But as he helped her to her feet and she blinked, a stack of papers caught her eye. The size of the paper looked familiar.…
Heavens, she knew what it was. A pile of news sheets. They would be from London.
Her blood went cold—so cold, her motions were awkward and stiff. But as Devon did up his trousers, she raced over to the pile of papers as quickly as she dared, as quietly as she could.
The top issue was only two days old, and there had to be a fortnight’s worth in the pile. She had never noticed them, for this part of the room was generally shadowy. The servants must have placed them here, and since Treadwell and the footmen couldn’t read them to Devon, the pages had been forgotten. On the front page of the top one, she spotted a small article that spoke of a madam’s murder and the hunt for the prostitute who had killed her.
Anne’s heart stuttered in her chest. She had to destroy these. She would sneak down here later, when the duke was in his study and the servants were not about. Then she would have to think of a reasonable explanation for why all these papers had disappeared.
She glanced back to Devon. Over the last three days she had been so busy with Caro and the baby, so delighted to be with Devon, she’d forgotten who she really was. A fugitive.
Chapter Fifteen
ATE IN THE night, Anne dropped to her knees before the fireplace in the library and fed six of the newspapers into the flames, grinding each page into ash with the poker. A kind of desperate fury governed her motions. Her heart leapt at every pop and hiss in the grate, as if they were footsteps behind her. She was certain someone would burst in before she was done. Someone would catch her. Then her fear, her guilt, her panic would give her away.
But no one came in. As the last page was reduced to charred scraps and dust, she sank back on her heels. Now every issue containing an article about Madame’s murder or the hunt for the missing prostitute—her—was gone. She should feel relief. But she didn’t. Perhaps she was learning she would never feel completely safe again.
Grimly, she waited until the fire had died down, then she left the library, closing the door behind her. She went to the stairs. The house was thankfully quiet, but her nerves were drawn so tight that even the reassuring stillness made her shoulders tremble. Devon had given a lovely guest bedroom to Caro and her husband, and their son was slumbering up in the nursery. Devon slept on a cot in the small dressing room that adjoined the master’s bedchamber. This way, she could be in the comfortable bed but be close by to soothe him when he had a nightmare. He still refused to try sleeping in the same bed.
She crept into the room, took off her robe, and slid under the crisp covers. Hours seemed to tick by. Twice she heard Devon moaning through the open door. She went to him, stroked him. To her surprise, he didn’t wake up. Her touch lulled him right back into slumber. But she couldn’t sleep. Her instincts kept telling her she must run. If she stayed any longer, she was going to get caught. The fear was irrational. In her heart, she knew she was willing, like an utter fool, to wait and wait, so she could stay with the duke. She would likely end up arrested as a result.
In the morning, she woke before he did. She was groggy, but there was no point in lying in bed for any more sleepless hours. She went to check on the baby. The nursemaid informed her that Lord Cavendish had already scooped up his son. He had carried the baby downstairs for his breakfast, then he and his wife were taking their leave.
&
nbsp; “They’re going?” Anne echoed to the maid.
“They decided last night, miss. Rather hastily.”
A shiver of apprehension rippled down Anne’s back. Lord Cavendish had come from London; could he have realized she was the woman hunted by Bow Street? No—Lord and Lady Cavendish couldn’t know. If they had learned the truth, they would have told Devon immediately. Anne squared her shoulders and went to Caro’s room, to say goodbye to the woman who had, in defiance of all of Society’s rules, become her friend.
Sunlight streamed into the bedchamber. Three trunks sat open on the floor with fragile lace-trimmed undergarments spilling out of them. A bevy of gowns were strewn across the bed. Anne cleared her throat. Caro saw her and gave her a glowing smile.
There, she must be safe. Caro could not know she was a murderess and still smile.
She hurried in to help Caro and the two maids pack the trunks. Keeping herself busy worked wonders, she thought. She was convinced she was behaving quite naturally. But after a half hour or so, Caro paused and stared pointedly at her. “What is wrong? You are so jumpy and nervous. When the maid accidentally dropped the trunk lid closed, you almost leapt out of your skin.” Caro’s eyes widened. “Is something wrong with Devon?”
“No. I—I didn’t sleep well. I will miss you, Caro. Very much.”
Caro waved the maids out, then clasped Anne’s hands. She looked so serious that Anne felt her stomach drop. “There is something, Cerise,” she said, “but perhaps I shouldn’t say it.”
It couldn’t be about the murder—what could it be? “Please do.”
“We all hope Devon marries. I know he has said he doesn’t want to take a wife, because he is blind, but the whole family has been absolutely praying he will change his mind.”
“Yes. He should marry. He deserves to find a wonderful wife and to fall in love again.” Anne blushed. “He told me about his fiancée, Lady Rosalind.”
“He adored her! It thoroughly broke his heart when she died. Our mother is convinced that a happy marriage is the key to healing his heart and bringing him happiness. But Devon …” She squeezed Anne’s hands. “Devon said he would never keep a mistress after he was wed. He vowed he would not even have one while he was courting a bride.”
“Oh. You mean he will let me go.”
“No. It is obvious he cares for you very much. I wonder if he will be willing to let you go.”
“If he plans to marry, of course he will.”
Caro bit her lip. “If he knows he will have to give you up, Cerise, perhaps that will give him one more reason to avoid doing his duty.”
Anne had no idea what to say. Surely he would not let a mistress stand in the way of a hunt for a wife, if he was ready.
“He insists he must stay away from Society,” Caro said. “When I told him he seemed to be quite fine, he said his improvement is all because of you. He told me he may never be able to marry, because he may never feel he could be with a wife without hurting her.”
“I know he feels that way, but I think he can be,” Anne said.
“This will seem an odd request, especially given what it will mean to you, but could you help him realize that himself? Would you do that for us—for his mother and his sisters?”
Anne’s heart wobbled. How could she deny his family, who only wanted him to be happy? “I promise I will encourage him to go home, to go out in Society, and to begin courting. I will do everything I can to make him believe it’s possible.”
She spoke to Devon about it that night, when they were alone again. “You see,” she said crisply. “Nothing bad happened during your sister’s visit. You could go home.”
“No, I’m not yet ready.” It was all he said. All he would say for the next two days.
Finally, as they sat in his study two evenings later, Anne brought out The Mayfair Mansion and, in as throaty and sultry a voice as she could adopt, described a very sensual scene involving one gentleman and two bounteous courtesans. Then she snapped the book firmly shut.
“I will not describe another picture to you unless you cease to be so obstinate. You were afraid your nightmares would frighten your sister, but they didn’t. She was sympathetic, not horrified. As was Lord Cavendish.”
“Angel, you’re so determined to do this. Have you thought of what will happen to you? I thought you wanted to avoid London.”
“I do.” She shivered, relieved he could not see it. For her, it would be the best if he stayed in this house forever. But he had rescued her, and he deserved to be happy. “I—It’s just that I promised your sister I would try to convince you to go to your family.”
“You promised that?”
She waited for him to coolly point out she had no right to make promises, but he cocked his head. “If you’re so determined to get me back into Society, you must help me relearn some skills.”
“Skills? Which ones?”
He quirked a brow. “I was thinking of dice.”
“Dice!” she squawked. She was about to launch into all the protests she could think of, when she saw the twitch of his beautiful mouth. “All right. Do you wish to practice making wagers?”
“Exactly. Our wagers would be articles of clothing. Whoever loses has to remove a piece.”
“Indeed. And when would we stop?”
“When one of us is naked.”
Devon carefully explained the principles of hazard to her, but it seemed to be a game of complete chance to Anne. How could gentlemen wager such large amounts on something that depended on sheer luck and not skill? But she proved to possess a good amount of beginner’s luck. She had Devon stripped down to only his trousers when Treadwell suddenly pushed the study door wide.
Devon turned to the door. “What is it? I’m busy gambling away the clothes on my back.”
Treadwell bowed. He looked warily to her, and Anne shrank back on her seat. Why did he glare at her like that? Dear heaven, was the magistrate at the door?
“Begging yer pardon, Yer Grace, but Lord Ashton has arrived. He’s brought a woman he claims is the courtesan he hired for you in London.”
Devon heard Cerise give a strangled cry. An obvious sign of distress, but over what exactly? “What in Hades are you talking about, Treadwell?” he asked coolly. “The courtesan Ashton sent is sitting right here with me.”
“Not according to Lord Ashton, Yer Grace. I took him and the lady to the drawing room.”
“Has he brought me another woman? A second one for my collection?” That would be like Tristan. He never kept the same lover for more than a fortnight. Tris would assume two ladybirds would be more entertaining than one.
“No, Yer Grace. According to His Lordship, he hadn’t sent ye a woman yet. Just the one he brought. His Lordship said he couldn’t find the right woman at first. Said he had to sample the ladybirds on offer to ensure he brought ye one ye’d like.”
Tris had not sent Cerise. Damn, he wanted to see. He wanted to know what expression was on her face. “Can you explain this, Cerise?” Tension crackled through him, his muscles instinctively tightening as they did when he sensed danger.
“I … All right, I admit I lied to you.”
“Why?” Her voice had come from the right but farther away than it should have. She must have left the seat beside him. Was she backing away? Preparing to escape? “Come back here,” he growled. “Come and sit beside me, so I know where you are.”
Her skirts whispered as she returned. He could hear her fast, terrified breaths. “For the very reason I told you, Devon. I wanted to become a duke’s mistress. Your mistress, so I could escape London and the stews and the horrible life I knew at … at the brothel.”
“Still, I do not understand the necessity of the lie.”
“It was the only thing that got me through the door. It was only when I insisted Lord Ashton had sent me that Treadwell let me come in. I did it because I had nowhere else to go.”
“I made a mistake, Yer Grace,” Treadwell began, but Devon lifted a quelling hand.
“There was no reason to believe the story wasn’t true. You knew Ashton intended to send a woman. Right now I wish to speak to Cerise in private. Ask Ashton and his prostitute to wait, if they will.”
“Very good, Yer Grace.”
As soon as the door clicked shut, Devon rubbed his temples, where a headache throbbed with a piercing rhythm. “Did Ashton go to you? Were you one he ‘sampled’?”
“No!” she cried. The settee creaked as she sat, but he barely felt the cushion dip. She must have perched on it, far away from him.
“Then how did you know to use his name to get through my door?”
“I did not mean any harm by it, I promise you, Devon. Lord Ashton came to a woman I know and asked her to be your lover. My friend has a protector, so she turned down his offer, but I was staying in her house and I overheard her conversation with Lord Ashton. I saw what a perfect chance it would be for me. I came to you without anyone knowing of it. Yes, I used his name so Treadwell would let me in, but everything I’ve told you since then is true.”
It made sense. She had been desperate to leave Town and she had wanted to be more than a whore in a brothel. She’d wanted to move up in the world and find safety. She would want that whether she’d been a gentleman’s daughter, a governess, or a poor girl born in the stews. Why were his instincts on the alert, nagging him there was more? “Come.” He knew where she was by her voice. He grabbed what he hoped was her arm. “Ashton came all this way with a courtesan. I might as well show him I no longer have need of his gift.”
A burst of masculine laughter came from a doorway ahead, followed by a woman’s high-pitched giggles. Anne tensed. She knew Ashton and the courtesan he’d brought were only sharing a joke, but the raucous sound reminded her that people laughed and cheered around the gallows.
Devon stopped. “You’re afraid. I can feel your entire body stiffen.”
He felt that just through the touch of her hand on his arm? He had remarkable senses. “I told a lie involving this gentleman’s name. I fear his anger. I fear yours.”
His hand reached out, awkwardly found her cheek, and his thumb brushed her lips. Even in the grip of terror, she felt the answering tingle of her skin. She had thought he would throw her out as soon as she admitted she’d lied. Yet it appeared he would let her stay.