by Liz Carlyle
Somehow he found the strength to rip his mouth from hers. “Freddie, stop!” His voice was deep, slightly strangled. “This is not a Christmas kiss. No more. We have to stop. Now.”
She looked at him through heavy eyes. Eyes which looked suddenly sure, suddenly knowing. The little girl was gone. And with a slight choking sound, Bentley opened his mouth against the delicate flesh of her throat and let his lips slide down and down.
“Freddie.” The name was torn from his chest. “Love, if you touch me again—if you so much as brush your lips over my face—I swear to you, I won’t be able to stop myself from pushing you down into that patch of grass and f—” He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “And…and doing something to your body that is really, really wrong.”
She put her lips against his ear. “Bentley, I’m tired of being really, really good,” she whispered. “Do you want me to die a dried-up old virgin?”
“Oh, dear God,” he whispered. And for the first time in his life, the phrase was not a blasphemy.
It was Freddie who slid out of her coat first. His own soon followed and, with it, the last of his restraint. His desire for her was like a living, breathing thing, a thing he could not contain. Swiftly, before he could rethink it, Bentley coaxed her mouth open again and began to slip loose the buttons of her shirt. It was a task he’d done a thousand times, often in the dark, often drunk—drunker, that is, than he was now. And yet his hand shook, and it took longer than it should have done.
Freddie knew what Bentley was about the instant his fingers began to toy with the buttons of her shirt. I can’t pretend, she told herself. I can’t pretend I don’t know. Or that this is somehow his fault.
She did know. And she did not care. She even had some vague notion of just what she was giving up. But Johnny had never kissed her the way Bentley Rutledge did. She doubted—oh, yes, she deeply doubted—that he even knew how. She doubted most men knew how.
Bentley was and always would be a rake. But he clearly wanted her, and Frederica was tired of saving herself for a marriage that would never be. She had desires, a feeling sometimes like white-hot fire in her blood, which she neither knew nor understood. It was a fire that Bentley, she somehow sensed, would understand.
“Freddie.” Bentley choked out the word just as cool air breezed across her breasts. “Freddie, for God’s sake, say something. Sweetie, I’m no good. Say no. Stop me.”
But Frederica just bent her head and rubbed her cheek over the bristles of his day-old beard. It felt so rough and so good. And Bentley smelled the way a man was supposed to smell. Like smoke and soap and sweat all caught up together.
“Oh, bloody hell,” he whispered. And then, with hands that shook, he shoved the cambric shirt off her shoulders and into the grass.
She could feel the heat of his breath on her breast. Then he opened his mouth over it and began to kiss it—suck it—through the thin lawn of her shift. Over and over, he drew the tip against his teeth, sending something slow and sweet spiraling through her body. And when Frederica thought she could bear the torment no longer, she arched and gave a soft, strained whimper. But Bentley made a low sound in his throat and turned his attention to the other breast, sucking until the fabric clung obscenely to her hardening nipples.
It was hot, and heady, and frightening. His hands were splayed firmly over her back, pressing her to him. She could smell his hair, the essence of him in the heat which escaped his clothing. It made her ache to touch him back and left her ashamed that she didn’t know how. But she trembled when his hands skimmed down her waist to fist in the heavy wool of her skirt. Effortlessly, he dragged it halfway up her thighs and then, on a groan, all the way up. His mouth still on her breast, he eased one hand between her legs.
“Freddie.” The word was a desperate plea. “Is this a yes? Sweetie, do you know what I’m asking? If you do, then say yes. Or no. Please.”
Freddie slid her hands up his broad expanse of chest and lifted her eyes to his. His powerful muscles shuddered beneath her touch, a testament to his desire. “Yes,” she said. The syllable was soft but certain.
“Good Lord, Freddie, this is suicide,” he said, then tumbled with her into the stiff winter grass, taking the force of her weight on his chest. She sprawled over him, her thigh pressed against the hard, throbbing ridge which she’d noticed beneath the close of his trousers. She knew what that was. She’d been raised in the country. With three very male cousins. She splayed her hands across his chest and looked down at him through a wild tangle of hair.
With a touch that was gentle, he threaded his fingers through it and pushed it from her face. And then, after a moment’s hesitation, he pulled her full against him and kissed her long and deep.
When he broke the kiss, Frederica found herself panting wildly. Gracefully, he rolled to one side and shifted his weight over her. In the heat of passion, boots, stockings, and drawers were stripped away. The chill night air breezed over much of her body. With his weight braced on powerful forearms, Bentley hung over her, his face cast in shadows.
His eyes. Oh, how she wished she could see his eyes again. Funny that she’d never noticed how warm they were. “Yes,” she said again, and Bentley’s hand went to his trouser buttons, swiftly jerking them free. In the darkness, she could see little and thought it might be for the best. She felt his hand slide between her thighs to touch her intimately. He gave a little groan of satisfaction and, with his knee, gently pushed her legs wide. “Ah, God, Freddie.” The words were an anguished whisper. “I hope I can do this right.”
And then, without another word, she felt the hard, hot weight of his erect shaft pressing against her body. It was then that she felt a moment of panic. As if he sensed it, Bentley dipped his head and brushed his lips across her ear. “If you say stop, love, I will. I can.”
He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself. She shook her head and felt her hair scrub against the grass. “No, no,” she said on a gasp, her hands clawing blindly out for him. “Take me. Give to me. Oh, Bentley, I don’t care. I don’t care what happens.” And in that moment, she spoke the truth. She wanted the pleasure his body promised. Wanted it, and feared it, too. But she was so tired of waiting. The heat in her blood was throbbing through her now. The weight of him pinned her, forced her down against the unyielding earth as his legs pushed hers wider still.
He was going too fast. Bentley knew it when he heard another sharp intake of breath. Ruthlessly, he checked himself and shifted his weight to slide first one finger, then two, back and forth through her soft, curling hair. He ached with lust for her, this girl he knew better than to want. But he did want her. And now he was lost—almost lost—in her sweet virgin’s body. With each stroke, he slid deeper into the hot, inviting heat until one fingertip was grazing her clitoris with every motion. Freddie began to pant, then to whimper, and the sound of it brought back the full import of what he was about to do.
This is it, old boy, he warned himself. Do it, and you are as good as married. Caught by your codlings. Snapped up tight in the parson’s mousetrap.
Or maybe not.
Freddie’s family was—well, just a little unconventional. And Freddie might not be fool enough to have him. Her cousins might prefer to simply kill him. Gus would surely try. Rannoch would likely succeed. But he had the most terrifying notion that just once with Freddie might be worth it. The sounds of night and the scent of fallen leaves washed over them, making him somehow more aware of the woman beneath him.
God, she was wet with desire, audibly so, and the thought gave him an incredible sense of power. He wanted her writhing beneath him, wanted to hear her soft, breathless voice against his ear. It would be different, he knew. Sweeter, somehow. And yet he was more than a little scared. Would it hurt? Would she cry? God, that he could not bear.
On the next stroke, he slid two fingers fully inside her, and Freddie gasped. With delicate precision, he drew out and slid in, deeper with every stroke, until he could touch the thin wall of fl
esh which nature had drawn taut inside her. And suddenly he wanted to rip through it with a ferocity he’d never known before. She was going to be his. The insane thought slammed into him like a brick wall. His. She had been touched by no man save himself, and the need to lay claim to her, to ram his body past that delicate barrier and take her for himself, raced through him like a lightning strike.
And he could wait no longer. Bracing himself above her shoulder with his hand, he took the weight of his cock in the other and gently probed her silken folds of flesh. To his shock, she rose to meet him, and she was so slick and wet he almost lost control.
“Easy, sweeting, go easy,” he whispered. “Oooh, no, no, Freddie. Let me, love. Let me do it.”
But there was, he knew, no avoiding the next step. Still, he resisted, trying almost unconsciously to draw back. With eager, innocent motions, her body kept rising with his, following him, her nails digging deep into the flesh of his shoulders. He pushed her hips hard against the grass, but when she arched again on a strangled moan, he slid half inside.
Her head thrashed, and she whispered something. Pleading? Begging? Oh, sweet heaven, she was so beautiful he thought he might die. And then, on a soft, jubilant cry, he thrust himself inside. He remembered little after that, which was devilish odd. He usually just watched himself have sex, distantly and dispassionately, not that that made any sense.
But this time, it was as if heat and light rushed through him, driving him into her. He tried, oh God, how he tried to hold back. He squeezed his eyes shut and dug his fingers into the grass, and then into the very earth itself. But he could not hold back the fierce desire which seemed to possess him.
He was drowning. Drowning in her perfect, virginal softness. Her tender flesh drew at him, sucking the very essence of life from his body. Over and over, he pushed and explored. He wanted—no, needed—to make it good for her. She possessed him, was him, and yet he was afraid he could not take her with him. It might have been seconds, or it might have been hours. And then, dimly, he heard Freddie’s sweet cry of urgency. Felt her leg hook round his waist to drag her body against him. Her motions were awkward, artless, and beautiful. Oh, so beautiful. His arms—his entire body—shook now.
Freddie arched again with a choking whimper, then her mouth opened on a silent cry, the sound of perfect ecstasy. La petite mort. The little death. And then all hell broke loose inside his head. Never once did he think to slow down, to pull out. Instead, shudder after shudder wracked his body as he drove and pumped his hips into her, until at last, that exquisite light exploded in his brain, and his seed spurted forth, hot and ravenous, marking her as his.
Chapter Two
The mysterious Affair of the Vanishing houseguest.
There was dirt under his fingernails.
Bentley shifted his head on the pillow, but even in the feeble dawn, he could see it. Lord, that was a tad uncouth, even for him. Shaking himself fully awake, he stretched out his hand, and it was then that he noticed the grass stains on his knuckles. His heart lurched, his stomach knotted, and on a groan of despair, he rolled over to see Freddie curled about her pillow like a sleepy kitten.
Her pillow. Her room.
Despair became alarm. Bentley leapt from the bed, and bare-arsed naked he was, too. But one ankle caught in something. Blister it, his drawers. Shaking himself free, Bentley stared down at the telltale heap of clothing which lay strewn on his side of the bed. As if he were a man facing death, his life—or at least the last six hours of it—flashed before his eyes. And then every detail settled over him like a lead weight. After lighting a candle, he sat down in a chair, his head falling forward into his hands.
Dear God. He remembered swaggering off to the Wrotham Arms with the Weyden brothers and letting young Lord Trent come along. He remembered drinking too much and letting Trent play too deep. And then hiring a buxom, flame-haired tavern wench to distract the lad. But Trent wouldn’t have her. “Old enough to be my mother,” he’d grumbled, red-faced.
So to salvage her pride, Bentley had taken her upstairs, paid her again, and started to have her himself. And he was well on the way to doing a bloody good job of it, too, given how much he’d had to drink. Then Trent had disgraced himself by retching all over the taproom, and the racket had drawn Bentley back down again. Thank God he’d still had his trousers on. But given that the wench was just the type he usually consorted with, he’d be dashed lucky if he hadn’t given Freddie the French pox.
Freddie. Oh, Freddie.
That, too, he remembered with painful clarity. Last night, after what he’d done to her in the garden, Bentley had found himself unwilling—no, unable—to leave her. It had seemed ungentlemanly. Or so he had told himself. As if it were considered perfectly good ton to tear asunder a young girl’s virginity without the benefit of clergy. And so he had brought her here, to the privacy of her bedchamber, knowing that she would wish to bathe away all evidence of what they had done. Then, when he should have taken himself off to toss and turn with guilt in his own bed, he had surrendered to temptation again.
It was odd, but something deep inside him had yearned to undress her. To do it properly, to admire her, this bold, beautiful prize he had claimed. But Freddie’s bravado had fled. She had been suddenly shy, and to soothe her, he had kissed her again, slow and long. In response, Freddie had melted. And that had been that, so far as their self-control went.
He had loved her again, but gently, with his hands and his mouth, until her soft gasps of pleasure settled into the night and she had settled into his arms. And again, he’d been unable to tear himself away. But this was the morning after. Something had to be done. But what? Or, rather, how? Scrubbing his hands down his face, he turned a complete circle of the room. Freddie had one of the coveted tower rooms in the oldest part of the house. The ceiling was braced with massive beams, black with age and barely visible in the faint dawn. An old casement window overlooked the side garden, its wavy diamond-shaped panes awaiting daylight. Otherwise, Bentley was trapped in a circle of stone—and in more ways than one.
And yet nothing but honor was stopping him from walking out. In fact, now that he thought on it, leaving—at least until tempers cooled—might just be for the best. But first, he had to talk to Freddie. He drew near the bed again and settled his hand over her bare shoulder. But Freddie did not stir, and he could not bring himself to wake her. Part of it, admittedly, was guilt. But part of it was the peaceful beauty which she radiated in sleep.
How strange it all was. For a long time, Freddie had been the merest slip of a girl, not at all the sort to turn his head. He’d never had a virgin. Never had a woman who hadn’t been had a hundred times before. He liked them older. Wiser. And he wanted a clean getaway when he was done. He rarely bedded the same woman two days running, and he rarely went two days without bedding someone. He was—or so his brother often sneered—unrepentantly promiscuous.
Only once had he been foolish enough to take a lover whom he could not leave. The memory of that still turned his stomach. And only once had he taken a mistress. Not because he’d really wanted one, but because he’d liked her, and because the life he could so easily offer Mary had seemed so much better than what she had. But in the end, he’d left Mary, too, with disastrous results.
So why Freddie? She had caught his notice more than once these last few years. So often it had begun to alarm him. Now he could see the gentle curve of her hip beneath the counterpane, could hear the slow, steady rhythm of sleep in her breathing, and he found it all strangely soothing. Her long, heavy hair was down—he vaguely recalled pulling the pins and ribbons from it—and spread across her pillow like an inky waterfall. Soft, sooty lashes fanned over olive skin which always glowed with warmth. Strangely, there was nothing of her fair, blue-eyed cousins in her, though he knew her father had been Trent’s uncle Frederick, an army officer who’d died a hero’s death in Portugal, leaving his fiancée to bear their child alone.
In her sleep, Freddie smiled and wriggled a lit
tle deeper into her pillow. On another strange stab of longing, Bentley turned away from the bed and went to the hearth. Naked, he knelt and stirred up the fire which had been banked for the night. An armoire the size of a dray horse stood opposite, and beside it a giltwood escritoire which looked absurdly dainty. He glanced about the room again and, not knowing what else to do, pulled on his drawers, then lit the branch of candles atop the escritoire.
Ink and a fresh sheaf of paper were already laid out, and Bentley tossed what seemed like a score of pages into the fire before he’d written anything which suited him. It had to suit; he was out of paper. So he sat back in his chair and turned it to the candlelight. He was shocked to see the page tremble in his grasp.
Bloody hell, he thought, his eyes skimming over it. These were words which ought well make a man’s hands shake. In truth, Bentley felt just a little ill. But there was nothing else to be done. He had Freddie’s reputation to think of. And then there was his obligation to her family. What would they decide? And what did he want?
He leaned back in the tiny chair and considered it. What did he want? To waltz through life unencumbered and unfettered, of course. To be thoroughly irresponsible. It was all he knew, all he’d ever wanted or expected. Besides, he tried to reassure himself, Freddie wasn’t apt to want him. Not for anything save a moment’s pleasure, right? If she thought otherwise—if her heart somehow formed a girlish attachment to him—Rannoch could always surgically remove it with his dirk. And then turn his knife on Bentley.
Yes, he was most likely a dead man—or would be, once the ink was dry in the parish marriage register. Ah, well. They didn’t call him Hell-Bent Rutledge for nothing. It had been bound to come to something like this in the end. So, with a shrug, Bentley folded the note, gave it an impulsive kiss, and propped it up on the windowsill. He meant to tiptoe back to his room, bathe, dress, and await the inevitable. He even went so far as to place one hand on the doorknob. But he still could not quite tear himself away.