Never Trust a Rake

by Annie Burrows

  Not that she dared hope that being true to the love she felt for him would make much of an impact on that scarred and hardened heart of his.

  But she would know she’d been true. And maybe, one day, he would look back upon this time they’d shared and realise …

  Her shoulders slumped. Realise what? That she was as susceptible to him as every other woman on earth? That she could no more resist his charm than all those legions of married women he’d conquered? That was all this was to him. Another conquest, of sorts. She was no more to him than an amusing little toy, which he could pick up and play with when he was particularly out of sorts, then discard when he had more important things to think about.

  The way that all the men in her life regarded her. She sucked in a sharp breath, shocked in the same way she’d been once on leaping into a spring-fed pond one hot summer’s day and finding the water so cold it took her breath away. Those discussions she’d had about her family with Lord Deben had made her see her whole past in a different light. She’d always adored her older brothers, but they had gone out into the world and were advancing their own careers, with scarcely a thought for her. Oh, Hubert may have written and asked Richard to keep an eye on her during this Season, but look what good that had done.

  And as for her father—well, he lived for his books. His studies. He did love her, in his own way. But the very fact that he’d made such a mull of arranging for her London Season only went to prove how little effort he’d expended on it. She’d seen him writing dozens of letters, to every known collector in the country, when spurred to acquire a rare geological specimen. She was sure there were any number of relatives he could have written to concerning her Season, some of whom would perhaps even have been able to arrange a court presentation. Instead, she suspected he’d inserted a paragraph into a letter he’d already been composing to the Ledbetters with whom he met up fairly frequently on his own trips to town, for her Uncle Ledbetter was one of those men who had contacts everywhere. He kept an eye open for when rare books, or newly discovered mineral samples, were coming on sale and notified her father. He would send the advertisements for lectures by obscure scientists who rarely ventured outdoors from their experimentations. Had her father assumed he would have the kind of contacts that would launch a girl into society? Or had it not even occurred to him that her requirements for a Season in London were nothing like those of a scholar?

  Further along the terrace, she heard the snick of a door latch. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a door open, just an inch.

  Lord Deben was waiting for her.

  She jerked her attention back to the garden, her breathing shallow, her heart pounding in her chest.

  If she went to him, he would kiss her. Kiss her in the way she’d been dreaming of for what felt like for ever.

  It was wrong, totally wrong to be alone with a man like him, knowing he intended to act with impropriety. He’d spoken of putting his hands on her body.

  She peeped over her shoulder again.

  If she went in there, she would be admitting he had conquered her. That she could not resist the temptation of knowing what it would be like to have him kiss her.

  Not that anybody else would know. He was so experienced in carrying on clandestine intrigues that he would make quite sure of that. He’d staged that final scene in the ballroom so that everyone would think it was their final farewell. So that this parting would be their secret—theirs and nobody else’s.

  She turned round fully, though she still leaned back against the balustrade, her fingers clinging to the copingstone as though it were the last bulwark of respectability. But her mind was already racing ahead.

  Since nothing could come of their relationship, since it had to end, she didn’t see why she shouldn’t have at least one memory to take back to Much Wakering with her. One memory of doing exactly as she pleased, without worrying what impact it would have on everyone else.

  One sweet memory of a real kiss, from a man like no other. She would hug it to herself. Bring it out and examine it during the long lonely days of her spinsterhood, because there would never be anybody to measure up to Lord Deben. And why should she settle for second-best?

  She was halfway across the terrace before she’d even noticed that she’d pushed herself away from the balustrade. Her feet were carrying her across the uneven flags as though Lord Deben were pulling her towards him with invisible cords.

  She hesitated, her hand on the latch.

  One kiss, that was all this would be. A farewell kiss.

  She didn’t see why she should deny herself just that one treat, no matter how wicked anyone else might say it was.

  She took a deep breath, lifted her chin and crossed the threshold.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘You came,’ said Lord Deben, gruffly, reaching round her to lock the terrace door.

  She could not see his face clearly, for the room was lit only by one candle, set upon the mantelpiece. But she’d heard something in his voice that made her heart leap. Eagerness. Relief? No, not that. It couldn’t possibly matter to him all that much whether she had come to him or not. That was just wishful thinking.

  Nevertheless, she yielded to the temptation to lay her forehead against his chest as he yanked the curtains closed to prevent anyone from being able to see in, for the action ended with his arms closing about her. For a moment, it felt almost like a real lover’s embrace.

  And when he said, ‘I am glad’, and dropped a brief kiss on the crown of her head she almost dared to snake her arms about his waist and hug him.

  Hug him? What was she thinking? He would not welcome a show of affection. He did not believe there was something uniquely precious about this moment. It was not affection he wanted from her. It was something darker. And twisted. Something comprised of myriad layers she had not a hope of ever penetrating.

  She was out of her depth with this complex, embittered man.

  And yet if she was, if she floundered, somehow she knew he would not let her drown. She couldn’t love him if she hadn’t detected, beneath all that armoured cynicism, glimpses of something that would never be completely corrupted. Something that called to her.

  It was only when she stirred in his arms that he realised that he was holding her so hard she could probably scarcely breathe. It took an effort for him to be able to relax his grip. He hadn’t dared hope she would really work up enough courage to come to him like this. He’d paced the floor at nights, since sleep eluded him, knowing his entire future depended on this final throw of the dice.

  But now she was here. And it would be here, in this room, if all went according to plan, he would bind her to him for ever.

  She looked up into his face. ‘I don’t want you to think …’ she began, but he stopped her by placing one finger over her lips.

  She had come, that was the main thing. He had no wish to hear her justifying her reasons for being here.

  ‘Not another word,’ he said. ‘I already know that though you do not wish to associate with me in public any more, you are still curious about what it would be like to be kissed by a notorious rake.’

  His face looked so harsh, his words sounded so bitter. He’d managed to make it sound as though she was somehow insulting him by coming here. And it wasn’t like that. Not at all. She would not be here if he were any other man. And even though it would make no difference to him, she still wanted him to understand.

  She took a breath to protest, but before she could even begin to explain, he’d swooped down and pressed his mouth over hers.

  And all rational thought fled. They were pressed hard together, along the entire length of their bodies. He’d clamped one arm round her waist, while his other hand had gone to the back of her neck, to hold her in place while his mouth took possession of hers.

  It was heaven. Almost. Because he was only doing this to stop her speaking her mind. And she’d hoped for so much more than anger. And if this was their one and only kiss …

  She whi
mpered.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said, breaking off. ‘That was not very adroit of me, was it? It would be much more comfortable on the sofa,’ he said, altering his hold so that he was beside her, the arm round her waist now guiding her across the room.

  She was so relieved it was not to be their only kiss that she said nothing, merely allowed him to sit her down and position her exactly as he wanted. Next to him, with his arm round her shoulder, half-reclining against a bank of cushions conveniently arranged against one end.

  ‘Better?’

  No. She had preferred him all hot and apparently passionate to this cold, studied man who’d spent the time waiting for her arranging cushions.

  ‘If this is to be our farewell,’ he continued, in that cynical drawl she so detested, ‘I must endeavour to make the occasion memorable for you, must I not?’

  She would have been happy with another few moments in his arms, with his mouth pressed so hard to hers that it felt as though her neck would snap under the weight of his passion. She didn’t want a performance, which was what this was. She could tell by the calm deliberation with which he was removing his gloves.

  He’d regrouped, withdrawn and was now treating her with the same cool contempt he was said to employ on all his other women.

  But then what could she expect? She’d destroyed whatever friendship she’d begun to hope might be blossoming between them by asking him to reveal this side of himself. By agreeing to this kiss, she’d made him see her in the same light he saw all those others.

  And this was his way of saying farewell to her. By reducing her to just another conquest, just another woman whose curiosity about his prowess had got the better of her, any hurt she might inadvertently have caused him would pass more swiftly.

  And she had hurt him. She hadn’t meant to, but instead of standing with him and facing down the gossip his sister was setting in motion, she’d agreed to walk away. She’d agreed to let him play the villain of the piece.

  It was almost as if he was bringing that performance into this room.

  ‘No,’ she whispered on a shiver of horror. ‘I have changed my mind.’

  ‘Too late,’ he said coldly. ‘You are locked in here with me now. And I have no intention of letting you go until I’m done.’

  ‘I have already kissed you,’ she protested, one hand against his chest as he loomed over her. He seized her wrist and flung her arm up above her head as he used his body weight to bear her down amongst the cushions.

  ‘No,’ he said, his eyes glittering with what looked like suppressed rage. ‘I kissed you. You merely stood there, too surprised to make any response at all. Though now,’ he drawled, ‘you seem to be thinking of screaming for help.’

  Henrietta was a bit afraid. He looked so cold and hard. The way he’d looked when Miss Waverley had tried to entrap him. But through that emotion rose others, just as surely as his body heat was seeping inexorably through the flimsy barrier of her dress and his waistcoat. One of them was sheer physical excitement. Being so close to him, with him so determined to behave outrageously, was the most intoxicating feeling she’d ever known.

  But deeper even than her physical reaction was her love. Which told her that though he might play at being a villain, though he might be trying to frighten her a little, to punish her for hurting him, for taking the easy way out when she should have stood by him, he was not a villain at all. He would not have offered to suffer public censure so that she could walk away with a spotless reputation, if he was.

  If anyone was being wicked here, it was her. Her reasons for being here were utterly selfish. And improper. And possibly a bit perverse. She was sure she ought not to feel so thrilled that he was pinning her down, intent on punishing her.

  ‘I won’t scream,’ she said. Although to her guilty ears, her voice sounded almost like a purr.

  ‘No?’

  She shook her head. Cleared her throat. ‘I can see, now, that I have made you angry with me, which is why you are being a bit brutish about the way you are going about this. But I have nobody to blame but myself. If I didn’t want you to kiss me, the way an experienced man wants to kiss a woman, then I should not have come here.’

  ‘You won’t scream for help, no matter what I do?’

  She shook her head again, then somehow found herself raising her free hand to cup his lean jaw.

  Damn. He might have known he couldn’t frighten her into conforming to the predictable pattern any other female would follow.

  So that was the end of hoping for her indignant aunt to come bursting in to her rescue, preferably bringing one or two witnesses to confirm public speculation about his evil intent, which would have resulted in him offering to make reparation by marrying her. She would not have refused him on those terms. For some reason, she was particularly protective of his reputation.

  Something like a short laugh escaped his throat. ‘I should have known you would never do anything so missish,’ he said, catching the hand she’d laid against his cheek and drawing it to his lips. ‘It makes you irresistible.’

  She looked sad. ‘Please don’t bother with insincere flattery. Not now. There’s nobody here to listen.’

  ‘When will you get it into your head that I am completely sincere? I have not said one word to you that I do not mean. And I never shall.’

  He might resort to extreme lengths to bend her to his will, he might disappoint her in a thousand ways, but he would never lie to her.

  Quickly, before the trusting look in her eyes could make him relent, he silenced whatever she was about to say by kissing her again.

  Henrietta surrendered to the heated urgency of his mouth with a sigh of bliss. She stiffened in surprise when he took advantage of that sigh to thrust his tongue into her mouth, although it was not at all unpleasant to taste him in such an intimate way, as well as making her feel—well, not to put too fine a point on it, invaded, in a totally shocking and yet completely delicious way.

  Lord, she wished she knew what to do with her hands. The rest of her body seemed miraculously to know exactly what to do. Instinct, she supposed. The totally natural reaction of a woman to the man she loved. Her heart was pounding, her bones were melting and that secret place between her legs was swelling and softening in preparation for the invasion that his tongue was mimicking in her mouth. Her body was completely uninhibited. Only her hands remained shy, buttoned up in gloves that would make the undoing of masculine attire a clumsy affair that would only be frustrated in the end by the inability to feel bare skin. Even if she plunged her fingers into his hair there would be a barrier of silk to mar the experience of sifting through the dark silken curls. Why had not she had the forethought to remove them, as he had?

  Because on his side, it was not love at all. He might be kissing her with an urgency that felt like passion, but she’d seen the look in his eyes before he’d started the kiss. It had looked very like determination.

  And a man in love should not have to steel himself to kiss the woman he was with.

  A little sob rose up in her throat. When she tried to suppress it, it escaped as a frustrated whimper.

  He gentled his kiss at once, nipping at her lower lip with his teeth, then soothing it with his tongue as he withdrew it from her mouth.

  Terrified he was going to end the kiss so soon, she flung her arms round his neck and pressed her mouth fervently against his, hoping to atone for her lack of experience with enthusiasm.

  To her great relief, he made that low growling sound in his throat that meant he was pleased, and took over the kiss again, moving his lips gently across hers this time, alternately sucking her lower lip into his mouth, then her upper one, as though he was tasting and savouring her.

  Only when she’d relaxed a little did he transfer his attention to her throat, nibbling his way down her neck, then back up to nuzzle and nip at her ear lobe. Almost delirious with pleasure, she let her head fall to one side to grant him better access.

  And he nibbled all the way down
her throat again until he’d dipped below her collarbone and was edging the bodice of her gown aside with his teeth.

  This was the point where a good girl would have made some form of protest. But Henrietta had wondered last time what it would feel like to have his mouth on her breasts. Had spent night after frustrating night wondering whether she was not sufficiently feminine enough for him to want to explore any further.

  Well, he definitely wanted to explore further now. His fingers were already dealing with the fastenings. So she stifled the small, almost token twinge of conscience by telling herself this would be her last chance to satisfy her curiosity in that regard.

  Almost as though he knew she might balk at this step, Lord Deben draped one of his legs across hers, pinning her very effectively in place while he tugged the loosened material aside so that he could gain access to her breasts.

  She shut her eyes. It didn’t prevent him from looking at her breasts, but it was all she could do to deal with her sudden attack of shyness.

  He dealt with it for her most effectively by covering one breast with the palm of his hand, whilst suckling on the other.

  She gasped. Had she thought she was delirious with pleasure before? This was so much more. She wanted him never to stop. To that end, she took his head in her hands to hold him in place.

  He gave another growl of approval. But then his hand moved away.

  She was just about to voice her disappointment, when she realised he had only stopped ministering to her breast to devote attention to the rest of her body.

  He’d told her she’d want his hands on her body, hadn’t he? And she did. She did. It felt wonderful to have his hand sweep along her rib cage, caress the indentation of her waist, trace the swell of her hip. Especially as he kept right on licking and nipping at her breast. If he’d stopped doing that, she might have had to do something, like begging or pleading, but as it was, it was all completely perfect.

  Except that for some reason, the better it got, the greater grew her need, until she was almost weeping with longing.