James was asleep by the time she finished the tale. Looking at his small, softly breathing form, she felt a stirring of...something. Tucking the covers more securely around his shoulders, she slipped from the room.
That had not been so very hard, as long as she avoided looking at the forehead and jaw so reminiscent of...him. She did not want to spoil the mild warmth she’d felt by even thinking the name. It had been almost like recapturing some of the sweetness of her own long-ago childhood, when she’d felt safe and cherished.
Regardless of whether or not she could revive her own emotions, she would do her best to give her son that security.
As she returned to the parlour, the clock struck half-past eight. Apprehension flared in her gut.
Walking to the mirror, she began breathing methodically, until she’d achieved a state of detachment.
She’d do better tonight, she reassured her image. Alastair Ransleigh had shown himself even more susceptible to her touch than she was to his. She had only to begin at once, to use his sighs and gasps to gauge what ministrations affected him the most, and continue them with all the vigour and imagination she could devise until he was so sated by pleasure, he had neither thought nor strength to attempt touching her. Then take her leave, before he recovered.
She would do that tonight, and for however many nights she must until, inevitably, he became bored with her and ready to move to the next conquest.
Her vow to him fulfilled, she could then concentrate fully on reaching out to James—and decide how best to protect him.
But now, there was Alastair. Giving her impassive image one last look, Diana rose to summon a sedan chair.
Chapter Six
Without her mirror friend to reassure her, Diana had lost a bit of her self-assurance by the time she reached the rendezvous. She arrived before the hour specified, hoping to go up to the bedchamber and ready herself, but the impassive servant who admitted her indicated that Mr Ransleigh was already in residence, and would join her in the parlour.
She damped down an initial flicker of alarm as she followed the man into that reception area. The bedchamber would have been easier, allowing her to implement her plan immediately.
Perhaps their sojourn in the parlour was meant to maintain some veneer of propriety for the servants’ sakes, though since there could be no doubt of the purpose for which she, and this house, had been procured, it seemed rather a superfluous effort. No lady worthy the name would ever meet a single gentleman at his abode, day or night.
Before she could consider the matter further, the door opened and Alastair walked in.
She sucked in a breath, struck by a wave of attraction and longing. He’d always had a commanding presence, his tall, broad-shouldered figure standing out from the others, even as a young collegian. Time had magnified the sense of assurance with which he carried himself, the air of command reinforcing it doubtless a result of his years with the army and his current role as manager of the large estate he’d inherited.
The dark hair was still swept back carelessly off his brow—she couldn’t imagine the impatient Alastair she’d known ever becoming a dandy, taking time over his appearance—and the skin of his face was a deep bronze, a result of much time in the saddle under the hot Peninsular sun, she assumed.
The most notable change between the young collegian she’d loved and the man standing before her was the network of tiny lines beside his eyes—and the coldness in their dark-blue depths that once had blazed with warmth, energy and optimism.
For that chill, she was undoubtedly much responsible.
Suddenly realising she’d been staring, she dropped her gaze. ‘Good evening, Alastair. Shall we proceed upstairs?’
‘No need to rush off,’ he returned. ‘Let me pour you some wine.’
She almost blurted that she’d just as soon get straight to it. Clamping her teeth on the words, she nodded before calmly saying, ‘As you wish.’
So they were to have civility tonight. She could manage that, and bide her time. Especially since, if he meant this to give the appearance of a cordial call, he was unlikely to try to seduce her in the downstairs parlour.
Slow, easy breaths, she told herself, accepting the glass of wine he offered, taking a tiny sip—and waiting. She might not force the issue, but she certainly didn’t mean to draw out this nerve-fraying delay by initiating a conversation.
‘I brought you something,’ he said, startling her as he broke the silence. He walked to the sideboard to collect a package and offered it to her. ‘I hope you’ll like it.’
‘Brought me something?’ she echoed, surprised and vaguely uncomfortable. ‘You don’t need to get me anything.’
‘Nevertheless, I did,’ he replied. ‘Go ahead, open it.’
She accepted the parcel, willing her heartbeat to slow.
‘I’ve brought you something...’ How many times during their courtship had he said that, his blue eyes fixed on her as he offered a bunch of flowers, a book he thought she’d enjoy, a new poem rolled up and secured by a pretty ribbon?
Breathe in, breathe out. Aware her hands were trembling, she fumbled to unwrap the parcel. And found within an elegant wooden box containing a sketchbook, a set of brushes and an assortment of watercolours.
‘I understand you came to Bath in a hurry, and might not have had time to pack any supplies,’ he offered by way of explanation. ‘I know how much you hate to be without your sketchbook and paints.’
So unaccustomed was she to having anyone give a thought to her desires, she found herself at a complete loss for words. While she tried to think of something appropriate to reply, Alastair said, ‘Perhaps you could paint me something.’
‘You are...very kind. But I’m sure I couldn’t produce anything worth looking at. I...I haven’t touched a brush in years.’
His eyes widened in surprise. ‘You don’t paint any more? Why did you stop? Not lack of time, surely! I should think, in a duke’s establishment, there would have been plenty of servants to see to the housekeeping and care for the child.’
Unprepared and not good at dissembling, she fumbled for a reply. ‘Paints were...not always available.’
‘What, was the Duke too miserly to provide them?’ he asked, a sarcastic edge to his voice.
Not wanting to explain, she said, ‘Something like that.’
Caught off balance, her guard down, the memory swooped out before she could prevent it.
One of the first afternoons at Graveston Court, despondent after having been summoned to the Duke’s bed the night before, she’d taken refuge in one of the north-facing rooms and set up her easel. Trying to shut out her misery, she focused her mind on capturing the delicate hues of the sunlit daisies in the garden outside.
She had no idea how long she worked, lighting candles when the natural light faded, but when a housemaid found her, the girl had been frantic, insisting she come at once and dress, as she was already late for dinner.
The Duke said nothing when she arrived, merely looking pointedly at the mantel clock. But when she returned to the room the next day to resume her work, easel, paints and all had disappeared.
She’d asked the housekeeper about them, and was referred to the Duke. Who told her that when she could appear at dinner on time and properly attired, he might consider restoring them to her.
She’d never painted again.
She looked up to see Alastair regarding her quizzically. Frustration and alarm tightened her chest.
She couldn’t allow him to start speculating about her! He could be as tenacious as a terrier with a rat, and she didn’t think she could fend off persistent enquiries without further arousing his curiosity.
She must regain control of this situation immediately.
‘I’ll just put them back in the box. I’m sure you can return them,’ she
said, giving him a determined smile. ‘Shall we go upstairs now?’
To her further frustration, he shook his head. ‘There’s no need to hurry. We have all evening. I thought we’d chat first.’
She had to work hard to keep her expression impassive. ‘Chat’ was the last thing she wanted.
She should give him a flirtatious look, try to entice him, but she couldn’t remember how. ‘I thought you would be...impatient,’ she said, a little desperately, trying to bring his mind back to the physical.
‘Oh, I am. But delay just heightens anticipation, making the fulfilment all the more satisfying. Now, my sister said you’ve spent most of the last few years in the country. What did you do there, if you didn’t paint? Although in such a grand manor house, I expect there was an excellent library. Did you re-read the classics, or more modern works?’
Once again, she struggled to find an innocuous reply. ‘I...wasn’t much given to reading.’
And once again, his eyebrows winged upward. ‘But you always loved to read. Was the library inferior?’
Her chest was getting so tight, it was difficult to breathe. ‘N-no, the library was, ah, was quite good.’
‘Then why did you not avail yourself of it?’
Oh, why would he not just leave it be? ‘I didn’t always have access to it,’ she ground out.
‘Not have access? But you were mistress of the household. I can’t imagine you letting some old fright of a housekeeper deny you books!’
‘It wasn’t the housekeeper,’ she blurted.
He was silent so long, she thought perhaps he’d finally taken note of her obvious reluctance and dropped the matter. Until he said quietly, ‘Your husband denied you books?’
Oh, why had she never learned to tell a convincing lie? ‘Yes,’ she snapped, irritated with him for his persistence, with herself for not being able to come up with a plausible story to deflect him. ‘Whenever I displeased him. And I displeased him constantly.’
Setting down her wine glass with a clatter, she reached over to seize his hand. ‘Please, can we have no more of this? I’d like to go upstairs now.’
Though he continued to regard her with an expression entirely too penetrating for her comfort, he nodded and set down his own glass. ‘Far be it for me to deny an eager lady.’
He had no idea how eager, she thought, light-headed with relief as he followed her up the stairs. Eager not for caresses, but to pleasure him and be gone before he could tug out of her any more ugly secrets from her marriage.
At the chamber door, she took his hand and led him to the bed. ‘Let me make you more comfortable,’ she said, urging him to sit, then attacking his cravat. The sooner she got to bare skin, the closer she’d be to seducing—and escaping—him.
But though he let her unwind the cloth and toss it aside, when she started on the buttons of his coat, he stayed her hands and pulled her to sit beside him on the bed. Tilting her head up to face him, he asked, ‘Did he take away your paints, too, when you did not please him?’
Caught off guard again, she couldn’t seem to come up with anything but the truth. ‘Yes.’
‘How long have you been without books and paints?’
She pulled her chin from his fingers, not wanting to meet his gaze. ‘A long time.’
‘And piano?’
Ah, how she’d missed her music! She’d hung on the longest to that, sneaking out in the depths of the night, like a burglar who’s discovered where the valuable jewels are hidden. In the smaller music room, a location far removed from the servants’ quarters and the main rooms, she’d played softly, in darkness or in moonlight...until that last, terrible night.
She jerked her mind free of the memories. ‘I’m not the woman you once knew, Alastair.’
Gently he recaptured her chin and made her look up at him. ‘Aren’t you?’
He lowered his mouth to hers, barely brushing her lips, his touch butterfly-light. This time, it was she who levered his lips apart with her tongue, then stroked at the wet warmth within.
With a growl deep in his throat, he responded immediately, seizing her shoulders and deepening the kiss. She wriggled her trapped hands down his chest and stomach until she could reach the buttons of his trouser flap, then struggled to open them against the erection that stretched the cloth taut. Finally working two buttons free, she slipped a hand inside, caressing down his length to the silky tip and back.
When he gasped, she broke the kiss, pushed herself off the bed and knelt before him. Before he could countermand her, she quickly popped the other buttons, grasped his member in both hands and took him into her mouth.
With him now beyond words, she ran her lips and tongue over every surface, listening carefully for his responses, deepening her touch or increasing friction when he gasped or thrust against her. Having catalogued his most sensitive areas, she focused on them, sucking, nipping and laving gently, then harder, then gently again, trying to stave off and intensify his climax.
It seemed she had done well, for some moments later he cried out, his nails biting into her shoulders through the fabric of her gown as he reached his peak, shuddering.
Not until he sagged back on to the bed did she gently disengage. Noting that he seemed for the moment insensate, she walked over to the washbasin to refresh herself, planning how she would next attempt to satisfy him.
Undress him, stimulate him, straddle him, she thought, ticking off in her mind the techniques that might leave him most sated. She damped down the shivers of feeling sparking at her breasts and between her thighs as she envisaged pleasuring him.
Pleasuring him, she rebuked her stirring senses. This had nothing to do with her.
Hands at her shoulders startled her. ‘Come back to bed,’ he whispered, nuzzling her neck.
Obediently she turned and allowed him to guide her over. ‘Let me undress you first,’ she urged.
‘Only if I can then return the favour.’
Get him naked and she might avoid that. Murmuring a non-committal response, she turned to seat him at the bedside.
Swiftly, she removed his jacket and waistcoat, then pulled the shirt over his head. And caught her breath, as any woman would, for he was so beautifully made.
Strong arms and shoulders gleamed in the candlelight. The muscles of his chest tensed as she ran a finger over them, down the taut belly to the edge of his trousers, then back up and over the scar that circled one shoulder.
‘Sabre slash,’ he answered her unspoken question. ‘Doesn’t hurt any more.’
‘Where?’ she asked, curious in spite of herself.
‘Badajoz.’
She’d read accounts in the newspapers about the battle. Not yet retired from Society, she’d also heard he’d entered the fortress city first, leading the van of the ‘forlorn hope’ through the breach the engineers had blasted into the walls. Her heart, not yet armoured against him, had swelled with fear at his recklessness, with joy that he’d been spared.
Denying the heat building within her, she ran her tongue along the scarred ridge of flesh, feeling him gasp and flinch under her touch. Encouraged by his response, she kissed lower while her hands caressed the lines of muscle and sinew.
Concentrate on him, she urged herself as her fingers tingled and the tension within her coiled tighter.
She suspended her kisses to strip off his boots, socks and trousers, then urged him down on the bed, pressing him back against the pillows. But when she lifted her skirts to follow him, intending to straddle the erection that sprang up boldly before her, he stopped her.
‘My turn.’
She made a murmur of inarticulate protest, but, ignoring it, he stood and turned her so he might access the fastenings of her gown. Not wanting to provoke a dispute by refusing, she allowed him to proceed.
She’d just have to resist
as best she could—and resist she would, she promised herself.
Stiffening, she suffered him to unfasten her bodice and skirt, tightening her jaw as he began to caress her breasts through the linen of her chemise. He cupped them in his big hands, dragged his thumbs over the nipples until they peaked, each swipe sparking a flash of sensation that shot right to her core.
Her control already unravelling, she jumped when he hooked a finger at the hem of the chemise and dragged it up, letting cool air flow over the hot, damp place between her legs. Gently he pushed her to the bed, kissing her with insistent, drugging kisses that stole her breath.
Her pulse grew unsteadier still as she struggled to resist the tide of sensation hammering at her. She bit down on her lip to keep herself from rubbing against him when his finger insinuated itself between her thighs, bit down even harder when he slid that finger up to caress the nub at her centre. Her arms ached from holding herself rigid.
Then he slipped that finger inside her, evoking a sensation so intense, she had to hold her breath until she almost lost consciousness to battle down a response.
He bent to kiss her again, suckling her tongue in rhythm to the stroking finger. Everything within her seemed to be melting, building towards some precipice she was desperate to reach.
If she couldn’t stop him before she got there, she’d come apart.
Frantic, she broke the kiss, rolled on to the bed and pulled at his hips, urging him over her. ‘Now!’ she gasped.
Mercifully, he must have thought she was ready to finish. At once, he plunged within, filling her, which was better—or maybe worse. Rocking urgently against him—this time, she simply couldn’t remain motionless—she sought to bring him to fulfilment, before the sensations he was unleashing drove her mad.
The Rake to Rescue Her Page 6