Because he was going to do it.
He was going to debauch Charles Paddington’s sister.
And he was going to enjoy every moment.
CHAPTER TWO
OH. HEAVENS.
Tildy stared at Dev, so befuddled by the touch of his soft lips on her skin, she forgot to retrieve her hand.
And he did not seem inclined to give it up.
How was it a man’s fingers could be so warm?
She’d been serious when she suggested he could be a candidate in her quest for a lover, but she hadn’t truly understood what that might mean to her. Not until he’d touched her. And all of a sudden, her mind was filled with thoughts of him touching her…everywhere.
It made her go hot and cold at the same time, which was something she’d never felt before and didn’t understand.
Unless, of course, she was coming down with the ague.
She hoped she was not, but she was quite wet.
He really was a glorious specimen of a man, she thought. His face was a panoply of hard planes and angles, all except his lips, which were full and soft. His eyes were blue and a patrician nose marched precisely down the center of his face. It was his chin that caught her attention though, and a fabulous square jaw. It was a pity that it was covered by a scruffy beard.
His shoulders were broad and the muscles of his chest strained his shirt, and a glance at his thighs brought tree trunks to mind. He was powerfully built, handsome of visage and seemed to have a sense of humor she could tolerate.
They were all elements high on her list of desirable attributes.
He was an excellent candidate…if he wanted the job.
“So…” All of a sudden, his voice seemed to be a purr. There was a predatory glint in his eye, which made no sense, because she had rather offered herself, hadn’t she? One did not need to hunt a sacrificial lamb.
Still, she liked the look.
“So?” She forced a moue of nonchalance, though her heart was pattering harder than the rain.
“Are you serious about losing your virginity?”
“Very serious.” George was a nice man—gentle and intelligent and respectful—but he was a stick. She felt nothing when he kissed her. Certainly nothing like this strange swirling in her belly when Dev so much as looked at her. She could not spend her life with George. She knew it as well as she knew her own name. It wouldn’t be fair to her and it wouldn’t be fair to him. No one wanted to live without passion. And like her aunt, Tildy was determined to know passion, taste it, wallow in it.
She’d seen her friends marry and turn overnight from impish, adventurous girls to sour-faced prisoners beneath the thumb of their domineering husbands. That would not happen to her.
She decided long ago that she would script her own story. She would control her destiny. And when Charles had announced that she was now betrothed—before her coming out, even—she rebelled. And ran.
Dev was right though. Charles would go to Aunt Elizabeth’s. He would go straight there. It was imperative that she achieve her primary goal before she arrived.
And what Providence. That this man—one who, other than the beard, was perfectly acceptable for her purposes, and damn handsome to boot—should stop and pick her up?
Clearly God in heaven above was on her side.
“You do realize this is something that cannot be undone?”
She had the sense he was asking the question purely because his moral code required it. “I do.”
“You are quite young…to be making a decision that will change everything.”
“Everything?” she asked. “Do you really believe that one act changes who a person is? At their core?”
He stared at her as though stunned to hear such words from a lady’s lips. But then he said, “I certainly hope not.”
His tone was so dark, so tormented, she had to ask, “Have you done things?” Things that changed him irrevocably?
“Madam, I have just returned from France.”
“Ooh.” How fascinating. “Are you a soldier?”
“I was. An officer in the King’s Dragoons.”
Oh. A cavalry man. She loved horses. “Did you see much action?”
“Far too much.”
“I am sorry.”
He blinked and she realized how lovely his eyes were. A light blue, almost crystalline, with large pupils and a dark ring around the irises, making it hard to look away. “Why are you sorry?” he said, his voice dropping low.
“You must have suffered.”
“I was injured.”
“Yes, but I meant spiritually.”
“Spiritually?” His tone indicated he’d never even considered those wounds.
“War is hell,” she said. She knew of such things. She’d read several books on the topic.
“Yes. It is.”
“But you are home now. And safe.”
“Yes.” He looked out the window and stroked his beard as though he were remembering some of his losses.
She wished one of them had been the beard.
She really disliked beards on men.
“So do you?”
His attention jerked back to her. “What?”
“Do you really believe one act can change a person?”
“I think everything we do, everything we say, every breath we take changes us.”
She blew out an impatient breath. “That is far too deep a rumination for this conversation.”
“Is it?” Why he seemed amused was a mystery.
“Most certainly. We are talking about my giving myself to a man who is not and never shall be my husband.”
“We are talking about you giving your innocence to a man you do not know. Do you have any idea how dangerous that can be?”
“I suppose it would be dangerous.” She had to admit this. “But it is not dangerous with you.”
He reared back. An odd mixture of shock and anger and confusion crossed his face. “How can you possibly know what kind of man I am? What I could do to you when I got you alone? Damn it, Tildy, I could be a monster for all you know.”
“But you’re not.” She knew. She could see it in his eyes.
As her words soaked in, she saw it blossom there, his deep gratification for her trust. But he sighed and scrubbed his face and said “Tildy,” in a tone that made clear he was about to turn her down.
So she went on the offensive. “However, if you do not want to be the one to deflower me, I totally understand. I imagine it can be rather unsettling to be approached by a woman with such a request.”
He murmured, “You have no idea,” beneath his breath, but she heard.
She patted his knee. “And you were injured in the war.”
His features scrunched up. He stared at her hand. “Just what is that supposed to mean?”
She batted her lashes in an attempt to portray her innocence. “I know what happens when men are injured in war.” She leaned closer. “They become incapable. I totally understand.”
“I am not incapable!” Surely there was no need for him to bellow.
“Unwilling then?”
“Bloody hell, no.”
“It is perfectly acceptable if you do not find me attractive. I do look rather like a drowned rat. I am sure I can find someone on the streets of London who is willing to do the deed.” She sighed heavily, just for effect, and then added, “I do hope I don’t get the pox.”
Silence sizzled between them. She determinedly held his gaze, despite the fact that his stare was fierce. His lips worked, as though he was attempting to form a response, several responses, as the moment stretched, and then he reached across the carriage, took hold of her arms and whipped her onto his lap as though she weighed no more than a thistledown.
“Not interested?” he growled. “How is this for not interested?”
And then, he kissed her.
And heaven.
As enchanting as those lips had felt dancing over her hand, it was nothing to this. This was as wild
as the storm raging outside, but still unbearably gentle and sweet. His scent suffused her, filled her lungs and stirred some latent hunger deep within. She wanted more. More. More.
And this desire had little to do with her goal of wriggling free of an unwanted betrothal. It had only to do with him. This man. This hunger. This passion.
She’d never felt it before. Not like this.
She’d only felt a passion for passion, which was very different indeed.
His body was warm, heating her. His hands roved, scudding over her shoulders and down to her waist to hold her in place. His lips were hard on her, demanding, yet sensitive to her needs. They engulfed her senses in a velvet trap, one she did not want to escape.
He pulled her closer, settled her more firmly on his lap and leaned her against the wall of the carriage and deepened the kiss, easing in his tongue and tasting her. She had to respond, but she had no idea how her untried exploration would affect him.
Something hard grew against her hip. The knowledge of what it was lit a fire in her belly. Need blossomed and raged. She thrust her fingers in his hair, twining in the strands and tugging. He did the same until they were holding each other still, each consuming the other.
Her mind spun, her body awoke. That long dreamed of desire arose.
She had no idea why, with one harsh movement, he pushed her back into her seat.
They stared at each other across the width of the carriage, the only sounds, their panted breath.
Heat walked between them. Ribbons of carnal lust bound them close, though they no longer touched. Intensity roared.
“Why did you stop?” She didn’t intend for her voice to crack, to be filled with anguish, but it happened.
His lungs worked like a bellows. His stare burned through her. His brow was prickled with sweat, despite the chill of the evening. “Not here.” A whisper, rough and low.
“Not here?”
“I won’t take you in a carriage. You deserve better.”
Oh, she liked that he thought so. She thought so too. “Where then?”
“I am staying the night at a friend’s house in London. Large, comfortable bed. A crackling fire. Excellent wine. All the comforts a proper seduction requires.”
She could not hold back a grin. “Oh. Is this a proper seduction?”
“It will be.” He settled back in his seat and studied her. There was something in his expression that made it clear to her what he was thinking. He was plotting her seduction. She shuddered.
“You really don’t need to seduce me, you know.”
His lips quirked. “Seduction is half the fun. Besides, you deserve to know all the pleasure there is to be had between a man and a woman.”
Her brow furrowed. “I thought there was just the tupping.” She knew all about it. She raised horses, after all. The male simply mounted the female and they danced around for a bit and then a foal came in the spring. It all seemed pretty simple.
“Oh, there’s more than that.”
“Is there? Do tell.”
“I will not. I’d rather show you. I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”
She blinked. “There’s…a surprise?”
His grin widened. It was rather wicked. She liked it very much. “Oh, most definitely. There is a surprise. But only if a man does things right.”
Whatever was he talking about? Oh, her passion was high, but now her curiosity was piqued as well. “Can you give me a hint?”
“You will like it.”
“Will I?”
“You will like it so much, I daresay you will beg me for more.”
Beg? She sniffed. “I never beg.”
“You will.”
Oh, was a man ever so sure of himself? But she liked his certitude. She’d heard horrible stories about the act from some of her friends. Many reported that it was painful and others said there was blood. She’d been dreading it since her brother gave her the news that she was to be wed.
The only drawback in her plan to foil the impending marriage was this. Submitting her body to a man who would undoubtedly cause her discomfort. She would like very much to enjoy it.
And she would very much like to enjoy it…with him.
CHAPTER THREE
THE RAIN HAD STOPPED by the time they arrived at Wickham’s townhouse in St. James, where Dev planned to stay until he got his muddled affairs straightened out. It was a mercy, because he was damned tired of the incessant pattering.
The storm had left puddles in Wickham’s mews, so Dev carried Tildy into the house. She was still a little bit damp, but for the most part, her clothes had dried on the ride to town.
His appearance was not a surprise to Wickham’s butler, Bronson, who was enjoying a toddy in the kitchen with Cook as he pushed through the door. Thankfully, Wickham had sent a note to his staff urging them to prepare for company, and as they’d worked for Wickham for some time, they were not unduly alarmed to see a man appear in the kitchen with a woman in his arms.
With a shocking lack of ado, Bronson showed him to his suite, lit a fire and promised to send up a tray for them both. Dev pulled him aside and asked him to prepare a bath as well, because he knew at least one of them would enjoy that. But probably both.
After Bronson left, he turned to Tildy, who wandered through the palatial suite with her hands behind her back.
“This is a lovely room,” she said, studying every aspect of it with great determination. He noticed her fingers were locked together and white.
She was clearly nervous.
That would not do.
“Sit down,” he said, quite congenially, he thought, but she jumped. “Tildy.” A thin smile. “I am not going to pounce on you. Sit.”
“Sit? Why sit? Don’t we need to…?” She flourished a hand.
He had no idea what that manic gesture meant. Or he did. But he wasn’t doing it like that. He was going to take her slowly. He was going to make this last.
And revenge was the least of his motivations. Especially when she stepped before the fire and her form was illuminated more clearly.
He swallowed heavily and tossed himself into one of the chairs, hoping it would incite her to follow suit. “These things take time,” he told her.
She whirled around to gape at him. “They do?”
“Most definitely.”
A snort. “That’s not what I heard.”
He couldn’t help smiling. “And what have you heard, Tildy?”
She tipped her head to the side and scrunched up her nose, which was, all things considered, adorable. “Three minutes. Five at best.”
He tried, very hard, to swallow his hoot of laughter. “Yes. It can be quick like that, but not if one is doing it right. Not if one wants their partner to enjoy it thoroughly. Indeed, to beg.”
She did sit in the chair then, but he suspected it was only so she could stare at him eye to eye. “What is this obsession you have with women begging?” she asked.
He winked. “Trust me. It’s better that way. And anticipation can be the best part. So we are taking this slowly.”
Her nose wrinkled. “Will it take very long?”
“All night, I imagine.”
She paled. “But I want to get this over with. I am nervous, you understand.”
“Of course you are, but if it is to be me, it has to be this way. I have no interest in a hasty coupling.”
She frowned. “A gentleman would respect my apprehension and be quick.”
His laugh was a bark. “Then I am not one, I suppose. You are free to choose another.” Though he did not want her to. He studied his cuff. “Bronson is available tonight, I believe.”
Her dismay was amusing in the extreme. “I think not.”
“So you will stay with me?” Why was there a trill in his belly at the thought?
Her deep sigh burst his satisfaction. “I suppose. But do tell me what will be happening. You know. So I can prepare.”
“Does one prepare for one’s deflowering?”
Neither had he. But he wasn’t letting lack of experience stop him.
“Very well. Here is what I am envisioning. We are going to have a nice meal and a conversation…and perhaps a little teasing—”
“Teasing?”
“Oh yes. You’ll see. And then, I think you would like a hot bath.”
Her eyes went wide and she shuddered. “A bath?”
“Ready to beg yet?” He had to ask because her expression was so fervent.
In response she smacked his shoulder.
“And then, I think maybe a massage.”
She blinked. “A massage?”
“Mmm hmm.” A nice, slow, seductive massage.
“Those things do sound nice…”
“Of course they do. Making love is exceedingly pleasant.”
Her mouth opened—tempting as it was—and then closed. She looked away.
“What is it, Tildy?” And then when she didn’t answer, “Tildy?”
Again, she wrung her fingers. “Does it hurt?” She peeped at him from beneath her lashes.
He had to be honest. “Sometimes it does.”
“Oh, blast.”
“But I assure you, I shall do my best not to cause you any pain.”
“How on earth can you promise that?”
“I shall do my best to make sure you are ready.”
“Ready?”
“Yes.” He took her hand in his and edged closer. “And I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do, Tildy. You say stop, at any time, and I will. Do you believe me?”
She gazed at him for a long while—too long for the sake of his ego. But then she said, “Yes.”
“Not every man will make that offer, you understand. Likely those who told you stories of pain had a partner like that. One who was quick and selfish.”
Her brow rumpled. “Selfish?”
He nodded. “There is pleasure enough for both if both are willing.” He cleared his throat. “Are you willing?”
“I suppose.” It was a lowering lack of enthusiasm. He took it as a challenge.
“Excellent. Shall we begin?”
Seven Nights of Sin: Seven Sensuous Stories by Bestselling Historical Romance Authors Page 2