Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  She kept her back to him. If she faced him, she might give into her weakness and take what he offered. “You do not. I know our betrothal is at heart only a way to escape scandal—or at least defer the worst of it—until Evie has her Season. Now you know I have no reputation to protect. Once the Season is over, we can go our separate ways. It makes no difference if society thinks me a jilt of the worst sort.”

  “Perhaps our betrothal is only a ruse to you.” He sounded almost angry. “It was never so to me. You must know the moment I told Lady Dunlee we were betrothed I was bound by my word. Gentlemen cannot break an engagement.”

  “Oh!” She was panting now, but not with desire. Anger—this was what she needed. Now she turned to face him. “That’s right—it’s all about your bloody honor. You don’t want to wed me; you only want to keep your word.”

  His brows lowered. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You told Clorinda as much.” How could he look so bewildered and . . . hurt. “Don’t deny it. You and Clorinda were standing in the entry hall to Crane House before Lord Kenderly’s ball as I came down the stairs. Your words carried. I heard each one quite clearly.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He had almost seduced her. He was far more skilled than Brentwood; he’d used compassion and understanding—gentle words and touches—but the result was much the same. Worse perhaps. Her heart felt as pierced as her body had been in Gedding’s garden.

  No, she wasn’t being fair. Stephen hadn’t seduced her as much as she’d seduced herself. She’d let herself be blinded by what she wanted, rather than forcing herself to look clearly at what was before her. Had she learned nothing in ten years?

  She swallowed the annoying lump in her throat. “Oh, yes, you do. Clorinda promised you she or Papa would get me to cry off, but you needn’t worry. I shall do so of my own volition as soon as the Season is over.”

  He was scowling at her. “I don’t want you to cry off, and I’m certain I never told your cousin I didn’t want to marry you.” He snorted. “I would never have such a confidential conversation with that woman.”

  “So how do you explain what I heard?”

  “I don’t know—I don’t remember what I said.”

  Well at least he was being honest. “It doesn’t matter. I know what you meant.”

  “How can you possibly know what I meant? You aren’t a mind reader.” His gaze was unpleasantly direct. “I’ll have my exact words, if you please.”

  She lifted her chin. She didn’t remember his exact words, but that made no difference. “You said what you just said here. You are bound by your word, no matter how unpleasant the consequences.”

  “I am bound by my word.” He looked at her as if she were completely daft. “Of course I am. Any gentleman is. But I’m very sure I said nothing about ‘unpleasant consequences.’ I certainly didn’t say any such nonsense just now.” He raised his brows suggestively. “In point of fact, I was anticipating some very pleasant consequences before we got into this silly brangle.”

  She flushed. “It’s not silly. It’s—”

  He reached out and captured her upper arms; the weight and warmth of his fingers shot directly to her treacherous breasts and the place between her thighs.

  “Anne, the night before Kenderly’s ball, I arrived at Crane House far too early, I was that anxious to see you. Unfortunately, your cousin was downstairs early, too. I was forced to endure far too much time with her. I ended up so angry—she was not speaking of you in a way I could like—I hesitated to say much of anything to her for fear I’d lose all gentlemanly restraint and tell her exactly what I thought of her.”

  He held her eyes with his. “I was willing to marry you then, but I didn’t know you as well as I do now. Now I’m very, very eager to make you my wife.”

  “But if it weren’t for the scandal—”

  “I was very much the author of that scandal.”

  “You were drunk.”

  “I’ve been drunk before.” He smiled a little. “Too often recently, until Harry tumbled me into that mud puddle. Even in my cups, I’ve never kissed a woman—gently bred or baseborn—on the street.”

  Anne studied his face. She’d swear he was not prevaricating. Could he possibly care for her? “But what if Brentwood tells everyone I’m not a—”

  Stephen stopped her lips again. “He won’t. I hold his vowels. I can ruin him at will. He’ll dance to my tune.”

  Her damn heart leapt with hope. Stupid organ. She wasn’t as naïve now as she’d been at seventeen.

  “I still don’t understand.” She ran her hand through her hair, giving him a delightful view of her fire lit breast.

  “What don’t you understand?” His cock swelled in immediate appreciation and reminded him what they’d been on the verge of doing before they’d been diverted by this argument.

  He wanted to pull off her thin nightgown. He wanted to see every exquisite inch of her without anything—even that worn cloth—obscuring his view; he wanted to run his hands over her smooth, soft skin; to feel the weight of her breast in his hand; to smell and to taste her from the red hair on her head to—

  “Stephen!”

  “Yes?” Damn. He jerked his gaze from her chest. “Did you say something? I’m afraid I wasn’t attending.”

  She frowned. “You shouldn’t ask a question if you aren’t going to listen to the answer.”

  “Very true.” He forced himself to look only at her face . . . and her lips and—

  No. Concentrate on her words. He was not out of the woods yet. She obviously was in no mood for anything but conversation at the moment. “I promise to pay strict attention now.”

  She gave him a long look. “Very well. What I said was I don’t understand why you would wish to marry me. The King of Hearts can have any woman he wants—I assure you, I’ve not forgotten all the glares directed my way in Lord Kenderly’s ballroom. So why do you want a red-headed spinster with no social graces to speak of”—she blushed—“and no virtue.”

  “Anne—”

  She looked away. “I’m not a virgin.”

  “Neither am I.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Of what consequence is a small scrap of flesh really?”

  She was angry again. “It is everything.”

  “No. You’ve made it everything because you’ve had the great misfortune of having it stolen from you. I wish I could change that for you, but I can’t. It happened—ten years ago. Let it go.”

  “I can’t let it go. I’m not what I appear, don’t you see? I’m not a virtuous maiden. I’m a lie.”

  “That is the lie. You are one of the most virtuous women I know.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I—”

  “No, don’t you be ridiculous. You are virtuous.” He’d like to shake her, but that wouldn’t help. She needed to accept the truth herself. “You love and take care of your sister and brothers; you forgive your father his absence; and—perhaps most amazing—you put up with your cousin.”

  Anne’s laugh was watery. “Clorinda means well.”

  “If you say so.” He could tell she wasn’t convinced. “Anne, what happened at Gedding’s house party shaped who you are today. It made you stronger in some ways and weaker in others. Who knows who you’d be if things had happened differently? Maybe you’d be a matron with several children hanging on your skirts—or maybe you’d have wedded a drunkard who beat you.”

  Anne was staring at him as if he’d given her a whole new way of looking at things. Good.

  “It makes no difference who you might have been. You are who you are. You need to put Brentwood’s despicable actions in the past where they belong.” He did shake her now, just a little. “You are giving the man far too much power over your life by dwelling on his perfidy.”

  “Oh.” She bit her lip, and her eyes glistened with tears. “Perhaps you are right.”

  “Of course I am right.” He pulled her toward him and was happy to see that she cam
e to him willingly and laid her head on his chest. He cradled her against him, listening to the fire hiss and pop. He would love to take her to bed, but she’d likely had enough emotion for one evening. “I should go and let you get your rest.”

  “No.” She looked up at him. “Stay.”

  “I’m not certain that’s a good idea.”

  “I am,” she said, but her smile wavered.

  “Anne, we can wait. We have years before us.”

  “No, I want to begin now.” Her voice sounded more determined. “It wasn’t just a scrap of flesh Brentwood took from me, it was my dreams of love and marriage and children.” She rested her hands on his chest. “I want you to show me now how it should be.”

  He closed his eyes briefly. If he’d thought his poor cock was going to explode a moment ago, he was sure of it now. But he must go gently. Anne’s body might not be strictly virginal, but her heart was.

  He held her eyes with his. “All right, but first, know that anything I do—or you do—we do together—with each other, not to each other. If you ever want me to stop, you need only say so.”

  Anne searched his face and then nodded. “Very well. How shall we begin?”

  “I think you first need to admit that you are beautiful.”

  “What?” She stepped back. “Don’t be silly.”

  “I’m not being silly. Married love is more than the spiritual communion bad poets celebrate; it’s physical communion as well. There are many women I’d be happy to have a conversation with that I’d never wish to take to bed.” He reached for her again. “And there are women I’ve taken to bed that I do not care to converse with. You are the only woman with whom I wish to do both.”

  “No.”

  “Anne, it will become very annoying if you keep contradicting me. You must bow to my greater experience in this matter, if you please. And my experience tells me that it’s important you see yourself as desirable in order to believe I sincerely desire you. Therefore, we will begin by removing your nightgown.”

  “But then I’ll be naked!” She sounded horrified.

  “Well, yes.”

  “That’s indecent.”

  Stephen smiled. “It would be if you were to walk into Almack’s dressed—or, rather, not dressed—that way. The patronesses are very particular about attire, you know. I have to wear silly knee breeches every time I subject myself to the place.”

  “I know that.” Dear God! Just the thought of stepping into that exclusive club without any clothing made her heart pound.

  “But here in the privacy of your room, who can object? You shed your clothes to bathe, do you not?”

  “Well, yes.” She flushed. “Briefly.”

  “Do you never look at yourself in the mirror?”

  “Of course I do. See?” She stepped over to the cheval glass. Stephen followed, standing close behind her. He was so much bigger than she.

  “I meant do you never look at yourself naked in the mirror?”

  “Good heavens, of course not!” She paused, a titillating thought making her blush more. “Do you?”

  He laughed. “Only if I happen to glance at it as I walk by.”

  “As you walk by? Do you mean you walk naked around your rooms?”

  He grinned. “Generally just in my bedchamber.” He lowered his head to whisper by her ear. “I hesitate to shock you more, but I sleep naked.”

  “You”—she tried to clear her throat—“do?” Instead of feeling shock, she felt a jolt of shocking need.

  “I do, though I need plenty of blankets to keep away the chill on a cold night.” He kissed her temple. “I’m sure in the future you will help me keep warm. Now, let’s get rid of this nightgown so I may begin a proper seduction.”

  “But . . .” She stared at herself in the mirror. She would die of embarrassment . . . wouldn’t she?

  “Please, Anne?”

  Why not? There was no point in being bashful now. She would let Stephen be her guide. As he said, he was far more experienced than she in such matters. “Very well.”

  She’d hardly got the words out before her poor, threadbare nightgown went flying off into a corner.

  “Eep!” She saw a shocking expanse of white flesh and squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

  “There—that is much better.” Stephen wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her back against him; the lawn of his shirt was soft on her skin, but his breeches were rough.

  She felt a pronounced ridge rise against her backside.

  “Anne.” His voice was husky now and, if it weren’t such a ridiculous notion, she’d say there was a touch of awe in it. “Open your eyes.”

  Open her eyes? That would be far too embarrassing. “I can’t.”

  “You certainly can. You must. I cannot continue seducing you if you do not.”

  “Oh, for goodness sakes.” She cracked one eye open. Oh, dear. Her breasts and her thighs were on complete display. She couldn’t bear to—

  Oh. One of Stephen’s hands was sliding over her skin to her breast. She opened her other eye to watch it. It was . . . odd to feel his touch and see his fingers, so dark against her flesh.

  “I’ve lain awake hours thinking of you, Anne, imagining how you would look naked, but for once my imagination wasn’t up to the task.”

  His words, dark and drugging, whispered in her ear, stirring tendrils of hair.

  “Your skin is like silk. And see how your breast fits perfectly into my palm?”

  She did see. She saw—and felt—how the tip of one of his slightly calloused fingers was circling her poor nipple causing it to harden into a tight, aching point.

  She sagged against him—her knees no longer cared to support her weight—and felt the ridge pressing against the cleft in her bottom grow even larger.

  “See how beautiful you are,” he said, “flushed with desire?”

  Her face—no, her entire body—was flushed. She should be mortified, but apparently there was no room for mortification in her soul at the moment.

  She looked up at his face reflected in the glass—his eyes were half closed, intent and focused on her body; his lips tilted up into a lazy smile. He looked as if he truly wanted her.

  She definitely wanted him—and at the moment she especially wanted him to stop teasing her nipple and touch it.

  He must have read her mind. He not only touched the sensitive point, he rolled it between his finger and thumb.

  “Oh!” Exquisite sensation shot through her, right to the damp, empty place between her legs. She parted her thighs, thus looking even more wanton. But she needed to feel the room’s cool air on that heated flesh.

  No, she needed to feel Stephen’s fingers . . .

  She watched his other hand—the one not fondling her breast—splay itself across her belly. If only it would move a little lower. There was one specific spot in amongst her curls that was crying for his touch.

  She waited. Perhaps he would read her mind again.

  He didn’t. His hand stayed where it was as if grafted to her skin. The heat and weight of it felt wonderful, but she felt certain it would feel much, much more wonderful an inch or two lower.

  Well, if the mountain would not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain. She tried to flex her hips to bring her ache closer to his fingers, but he was holding her so tightly, she couldn’t move. In fact, her motion must have encouraged him in a way she’d not intended—he pressed her more firmly against his erection.

  “Is that a growl I hear, Anne?” Humor laced his voice; the annoying man knew exactly what he was about. “Am I doing something to displease you?”

  “Yes—I mean no.”

  “Yes and no? I don’t understand. Perhaps if you tell me instead of merely growling at me?”

  She growled. “It’s not what you’re doing—it’s what you’re not doing. I want you to move your hand.”

  “What, this hand?” He lifted his fingers from her breast.

  “No. Of course not.” Her teeth were gritt
ed now. “The other one.”

  “Ah, this one.” He stroked her belly. At last he was moving in the right direction.

  “Yes.”

  His lips nuzzled a spot just under her ear. “And where would you like me to move it?”

  “You know.”

  “Anne, I am no more a mind reader than you are. Tell me.”

  He knew; she knew he knew, but she had no patience to discuss the matter. “Lower. Move it lower.”

  “An excellent suggestion. Like this?” He slid his fingers through her curls, but skimmed over the spot that most needed him.

  “Not quite.” Desperation exploded in her. “I need you to touch me.”

  He acted confused, but she saw the devilry and heat in his eyes. “But I am touching you.”

  She was no longer in the mood for teasing—one did not dangle a loaf of bread in front of a starving man. She grabbed his hand and tried to push it where she wanted it to go, but he was far too strong. She couldn’t move him at all.

  “Impatient?” He kissed the skin below her ear again and circled her nipple with the tip of his finger.

  “Yes.” If he enjoyed torturing her, she would try torturing him. She pushed her bottom more tightly against his erection and wiggled a bit. She heard him inhale sharply. “Touch me!”

  “So demanding.” She was savagely delighted to hear a thread of need in his voice. “Let me see . . . is this the spot?” He brought his finger down until . . .

  “Ahh.” Her body shivered. “Yes.” This was nothing at all like her encounter with Brentwood. Stephen had loosened his hold on her a little, so she tilted her hips and spread her legs wider, offering him a bold invitation. She no longer cared what she looked like.

  He accepted it. His finger slipped over and around her.

  “You’re so wet for me, Anne.” His voice was husky; he sounded very pleased.

  “Ah.” She twisted. It felt so good. It felt—

  He stopped, his hand cupping her. “I think it’s time we went to bed, don’t you?”

  Bed sounded like a very good idea, but . . . “You won’t stop doing this, will you?”

  “Only for the time it takes us to move from here to there. And then I will do this and other, even more delightful things—things much easier to do on a comfortable mattress.”