by Shana Galen
No, he could not use her son against her, but he could use the boy to gain information about her. He could demand she include him in her… in whatever it was she was doing in Nottinghamshire. He pulled back, aware this might all be an attempt to seduce him, a form of bribery so he would not reveal her secrets. He wanted her, but not with that between them.
“I won’t reveal your secret,” he said. “I want your help.”
She looked up at him and blinked, seeming almost dazed. “I know.”
“What I mean is, you do not have to do this to persuade me to keep quiet.”
“I never would.” She moved to kiss him again, and with herculean willpower, he held her at bay.
“But I do want something, and I want you to agree before this goes any further.”
She frowned at him, and he understood her confusion. He was confused as well. At some point he had developed… not scruples, exactly, but something suspiciously resembling them. “What do you want?”
“I want to be part of whatever it is you are doing at Ravenscroft Castle.”
“No.” Her response was quick and definitive. She attempted to step away, but he had no intention of allowing her warm, supple body out of his arms. And he would secure her help. It was the only way he could save both of them.
“Yes,” he demanded. “You will include me.”
“You already said you would not reveal my secret.”
“But that does not mean I will make things here easy for you. I can reveal other things to my father, which may make him question his engagement to you.” He glanced at the mantel, where he had left her letters. He saw her look at them, knew she was thinking of her letter to Fitzhugh.
“I’ll consider it.”
“Good.”
“And what makes you think this”—she gestured to his arms wrapped around her—“will go any further?”
“This makes me think so.” He bent and took her mouth with his. The moment their lips met, he felt the frisson between them. Something akin to the flash of fire when it is first ignited. She fought the spark. He could feel her trying to pull away, trying to resist. He had given up resisting. He could no longer keep his desire for her at bay.
“We cannot do this,” she said, turning her head to deny him access to her mouth.
“Lily.” He touched her cheek and tilted her face to his again. “We were meant to do this. Do you think this—what we feel when we touch—is common? You must know it’s not.”
“You should go.” But she didn’t mean it. He could see in her eyes she wanted him to stay.
“Don’t make me beg,” he said.
“I thought I was the one who was begging.”
He gave her his most wicked grin. “Give me a few moments more.”
She hesitated when she should have fled, and he took advantage, kissing her again. His hand slid up her back to trace the bare skin of her neck and cup the back of her head. Her flaming hair was heavy in his hand, and his nimble fingers plucked pin after pin from it, allowing them to fall useless on the rug. Finally, her hair tumbled down, sweeping over his arm. It was longer than he’d imagined, and wavy but soft. He threaded his hands through it, kissing his way to her neck. He wrapped his hand in her hair and brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply. It smelled of apples and fresh cream, of all things, wholesome and sweet. He kissed the tender flesh of her neck again. His lips brushed that soft skin, pressing so lightly that he could feel her shiver.
“Cold?” he murmured.
“No. Warm. So very warm.”
He traced the lace at the bodice of the gold shimmery gown she wore, marveling at the accuracy of her statement. Her flesh was warm to his touch, flushed and slightly pink. Andrew had an encyclopedic knowledge of women’s clothing, and he quickly loosened the fastenings holding the bodice in place. The silk material fell aside, leaving her in skirts and stays over a thin, filmy chemise. He had tasted her before, kissed her here, taken her flesh in his mouth, but he found himself eager to do so again. Almost too eager. His hand shook as he pulled at the stay’s lacings. When he looked at her face, she was gazing up at him, her eyes large and liquid.
He wondered what she saw in his face. Desire? Certainly. Need? Definitely. Fear? God, he hoped not. He wanted this to be right. He had never wanted anything so much in his life. And he reminded himself he was a fool to worry. She was no virgin, and yet he felt as though there was something new for both of them in this coming together. He had always bedded women because his body craved the pleasure. But he had all but forgotten his own needs. It was her needs he thought of.
When her stays opened, he allowed the weight of his hand to rest over the cloudlike thinness of her chemise. He could feel her heart pounding under her fevered skin, and at his touch, she gave a little moan. That sound pleased him inordinately. He hooked a finger in the small loop with which she’d tied the neck of her chemise and tugged. The loop opened, and the material rippled down her shoulders, pooling at her elbows and exposing her exquisite breasts and the sapphires nestled between them.
Now she would see his hands shake, and he could not seem to control the tremors. She was perfect. He watched as her nipples hardened and puckered under his gaze, then lowered his mouth to take one dark, ripe bud between his lips. His hands remained fastened on her shoulders until he was certain he could control their shaking. As soon as his cool lips touched her warm flesh, she arched back and dug her nails into his upper arms. Her surrender was all but complete, and it made him want her that much more. He was hard for her now, eager to explore all of her body as he explored the fullness of first one breast and then the other.
He caught a glimpse of her flame-washed body in the light of the fire and wanted her naked before him. Bending, he swept her into his arms.
She laughed, and he looked down at her as he crossed to the bed. “I’ve amused you?”
“I’ve never been carried to bed before.”
“Good.” He laid her down and stripped off his coat, then loosened his cravat. He wanted to touch her, skin to skin.
“I had no idea all that romantic talk of yours was not simply for show.”
“I hope you don’t expect me to start spouting poetry.” He pulled his shirt over his head.
Her eyes widened appreciatively, and he had to admit he felt a certain sense of satisfaction in knowing she found him desirable. He had not spent all those hours in the boxing ring for naught. He reached for the fall of his trousers then thought better of it. Instead, he rolled her over. She laughed again, which pleased him for some reason.
“Now what are you doing?” she asked, looking at him from over her shoulder.
“Unhooking your skirt and then untying your petticoats.” He spoke as he performed the actions.
“I could stand.”
His hand stroked the curve of her bottom. “I like you like this.”
And then the garments were gone and the chemise with it, and she was left in her stockings and garters, the skin of her pale bottom painted with colors from the flickering fire. How he wanted to raise her hips and take her then and there. But he held off, instead lowering his mouth to her back and skating his wet tongue over her warm flesh.
She giggled and then moaned, her hips rising on their own so her bottom cupped him where he ached. He continued his descent down her spine, licking the indenture of her lower back then kissing it softly. One hand delved under her, lifting her pelvis so the other hand could slide between her legs. He found her fold warm and wet for him as he stroked her. She moved against him, pushing into his hand, and when he slipped two fingers inside her slick opening, she groaned. He slid in and out of her, readying her, surprised when he felt her muscles tighten so quickly. “You are ready for me,” he whispered into her cinnamon hair. “Let go. I want to feel you climax.”
“Andrew.” She was holding back, but her body would not be denied. She wri
thed against him, and it took but a small adjustment of his fingers until she went over the edge. She clenched around him and cried out, muffling the noise into the covers on the bed. Even in passion, she was no fool.
When she stilled beneath him, he began to kiss her back again, and she rolled over, looking up at him with eyes impossibly green. “Your turn,” she said.
He knew what she meant, but he wanted to be inside her. He wanted to pleasure her even as she gave herself to him. “And your turn again,” he said.
Gently, she pushed him back and loosed, awkwardly, the fall of his trousers. He sprang free, and she pushed the material off his hips and then took his hard length in her hand. He groaned at her gentle touch, knowing she must be teasing him. She stroked him then bent to touch him with her tongue. In one move, he rolled over, pinning her beneath him. “I want to be inside you.”
“No.”
He had been about to kiss her, and it took a moment before her refusal broke through the haze of his desire. “No?”
“I’ve made that mistake in the past, as you well know. I won’t risk it again.”
He thought to ask how she managed with other men, but he did not want to speak of other men at the moment. And then she was pushing him back again and lowering her mouth to him, and he could not really think at all. He would allow this. For the moment.
She kissed him, then licked, her pink tongue tentative and sweet. He had to clutch the bedclothes when she put her lips around him, but just when he was gritting his teeth in anticipation of exerting extreme self-control, she withdrew and… kissed him again.
What the devil was she doing? It was not unpleasant, but neither was it what he was expecting from a renowned courtesan. She took him again, so clumsily he all but gaped at her. He could have sworn he felt teeth. “Ouch!”
“Sorry,” she said with a sheepish shrug. And then she went back to kissing him—quick little pecking kisses that were more suitable for a grandmother’s cheek than for… Now what the devil was she doing? She had him in some kind of vise grip. He supposed there was a first time for everything, because at this point, he just wanted her to stop.
“You’ve never done this before,” he said, the words out before he could prevent them.
She glanced up at him, guilt in her eyes before she hid it. “Yes, I have.”
“With whom?”
She straightened indignantly. He wasn’t chastised. He enjoyed the view. “How dare you ask me to reveal such a thing!”
“I only want to know if the man survived.”
She looked rather disheartened at that statement. “Was it that awful?”
He contemplated his answer. He did not want her trying again, but he did not want her to order him out either.
“Your hesitation is all the answer I need,” she said with a sigh. “I suppose you might as well know the truth. You won’t believe it.” She paused and considered. “Or perhaps you will.”
Instinct told him this conversation led in the wrong direction. He made a point never to converse with women in bed. It led to emotional outbursts he wanted to avoid. But he could not imagine Lily making such an outburst. Of course, he would have said the particular French trick she had been performing—even when it was done badly—was still good. But the world was obviously off its axis. “The truth about what?”
She pulled the covers over her shoulders, wrapping them protectively around her body. “I’m not really a courtesan.”
Whom did she think she was speaking to? He knew her. He had been to more social events with her than he could count. She was one of The Three Diamonds. She was the Fashionable Impure.
She was watching him, noting his response. “I knew you would not believe me.”
“Are you telling me you are not one of The Three Diamonds?”
“No. I am telling you The Three Diamonds was a fabrication we created in order to survive in London. I had birthed a child out of wedlock. I was a fallen woman. The Countess of Sinclair suggested I embrace my status, rather than attempt to hide it.”
“The Countess of Sinclair?” Now this was too much altogether. Angry, he stood, yanked his trousers back up and rounded on her. “The wife of your protector, The Earl of Sin, told you to join the demimonde?”
“Yes. She told all of us.”
The woman did not look mad, but she was sitting there making no sense and expecting him to believe it. “Was this before or after she found you and your fellow Diamonds in bed with her husband?”
“I’ve never been in bed with Lord Sinclair. I’ve never seen his bedchamber. He’s like a benevolent uncle to me. Society began to whisper that we were engaging in all manner of lewd acts with the earl, and the countess realized that everyone would believe whatever they wanted, regardless of what the truth was. And so she let them believe it.”
He shook his head. What she’d said, what Lily told him, was impossible to fathom. “She’s the pity of every woman and half the men of the ton,” he said. “Why would she allow that?”
“Because she’s kind and selfless and loving.”
Andrew had never met the Countess of Sinclair. He’d never wanted to. But he knew who she was. He had been to functions where she was present. He would have described her as a dragon—and that was being kind—but Lily seemed to think the woman a lap dog.
“All of Society thought we were under the protection of Sinclair. That elevated our status and gave us instant notoriety. We became desirable in every way. I never even had to take a man to my bed to maintain the illusion. It was enough that everyone thought I was bedding everyone else.”
“But men—”
“Lie?” she offered. “No, no. I’m sure no man ever lied about one of his conquests.”
Andrew paced back and forth. He could not believe this. It was difficult to fathom. The Three Diamonds had fooled everyone.
Or had they? Did Fitzhugh and Pelham know the truth? Was that why they had no reservations about marrying the so-called courtesans? And then another thought occurred to him. If Lily was not a Cyprian, neither was Juliette. She had never been a courtesan. No wonder she never wanted him in her bed. He looked up and found Lily watching him, her mouth pursed. “I already know what you are going to ask. No, Juliette was no more a courtesan than I was. Whether she ever invited a man to her bed, I do not know. Our position gave us independence.” She gestured to the bed where they had been wrapped around each other a moment ago. “As you see.”
He did not want to believe it, but he knew it must be true. And so Lily really had no experience pleasuring a man. She had been used, at a very young age, by a man who left her, and had limited experience. And he’d expected her to behave as a fallen woman. He’d treated her—“I want you to leave.” She tossed his shirt to him, hitting him in the face. “Go now.”
“If I offended you earlier, I apologize. I did not know. I did not realize. Lily, I should have—” He gestured helplessly. There was so much he should have done differently. But he could make it up to her now. He could be tender with her. He could proceed slowly, reassure her, cherish her and the experience. He wanted to. Suddenly, he wanted that more than anything else.
“Please go,” she said, her face set in stone and her tone a perfect match.
“Lily.” He started for her, and she scooted back, holding her hand up defensively.
“Out! Now!”
“What the devil? What have I done?” But he was already pulling his shirt over his head. He would not stay if he was not wanted.
“Do you really not know? Can you really blame me for wanting you to leave after your first thought when I reveal my secret is of her?”
“No. Lily, she wasn’t my first thought.”
“So you did not think of Juliette? You did not try and piece together why she had never asked you to her bed?”
The fire crackled.
“At least you
are honest,” she said with a sneer, but she looked close to tears. “I love Juliette,” she said. “She is my dearest friend and will always be. But right now, I hate her and you both. Out!”
Andrew did as she ordered.
***
Lily told herself it was for the best. An intimate relationship with Darlington would make what she had to do that much more difficult. She looked at her rumpled bed and at her clothing strewn about the floor in wanton disarray. How had it even come to this? She had walked in to find him in her chamber, reading her personal mail, and they had ended up—her mail!
She jumped to her feet and ran to the mantel. She snatched up the papers and pawed through them. There was the letter from Lady Sinclair and the accompanying report from the investigator she had hired. Thank God! She fed it to the fire and watched it burn. She turned over the last paper she held in her hand, expecting to see her letter to Fitzhugh. But the paper was blank. She stared at it, willing words to appear in her hand. And then she searched the mantel again, peered into the fire, turned over her clothing and her bedsheets.
But the letter to Fitzhugh was not in her room.
And that meant Darlington still had it.
Bastard!
Well, she could steal it back. Then it would be his word against hers. She need not feel any compunction about doing such a thing. After all, he had stolen it from her in the first place. And after he had stolen it, he had proceeded to seduce her—the scoundrel!
Oh, very well. She’d wanted to be seduced, so she could hardly fault him. She did not know why she should suffer such weakness when it came to him. Why could she not refuse him, when she had refused hundreds of other men who were equally handsome, wealthy, or charming?
Because you love him.
No, she did not love him. She did not want to love him. She had put those feelings to rest—several times—and she refused to succumb again. He loved Juliette. He would always love Juliette, and even if, by some miracle, he came to love her, she would always be second to the one and only Juliette.