by Ingrid Hahn
“Rules?”
“’Tis a game, isn’t it?”
“Is this—” His voice almost buckled under the strain of speaking. He spoke with careful detachment. “—something of your own invention that you’ve played before?” Jealousy curled behind the bars of a cage, clattering to be unleashed should she have ever before played this game with another.
Absurd.
He cared not one whit whether or not she’d ever kissed another man—or even if she’d ever lain with another man. Why was the game she proposed different? Why did it bring out territorial instincts?
It was like the cottage, perhaps. Harland couldn’t tell her he’d never brought anyone here before. It would have sounded insincere.
He’d taken pains with the place—each and every item he’d selected. True, most were from the Mandeville House attics, but he still had fond memories of being a boy exploring those upper rooms on rainy days when the nearly interminable lessons with his long-winded tutor had ended.
Mandeville House belonged to the marquess. The cottage belonged to him. Oh, they were one in the same, right enough. In a way. The difference was, within these walls, he was never an outsider.
Her chin struck out at a playful, almost daring jaunt. “Not the version I’ve a mind to play with you.”
Jealousy subsided and rough male satisfaction surged to replace it.
He took a bottle of wine and two glasses from a small cupboard in the corner and filled each halfway.
“Very well then, madam, what are the rules?” He handed her one of the glasses before wetting his own tongue. The wine released a scent of aromatic complexity. It tasted of summer red berries and the wide-open countryside and perhaps the most minute hint of spice. “Wait—first, I should have your name.”
“That is in fact the first rule, I’m afraid. No names.”
Along with a hard crash of disappointment at her pronouncement came a heady rush of a whole new kind of excitement. No names. Interesting.
“I think you know mine.”
“But I won’t say it.”
“Again, I’m at the disadvantage.”
“Enjoy it while you can, my lord.”
It was the first time she’d called him my lord instead of sir.
“What a saucy thing you are.”
She tossed one lovely shoulder.
Harland would wager every last inch of unentailed property that she wasn’t usually like this—but that she was enjoying her newfound cheek more than a naughty child enjoys pilfering forbidden lumps of sugar.
He stirred something in her. Made her want to be bold.
Good.
It was all the promises held in the way their bodies had brushed together when they’d danced coming to fruition.
Thinking on it made him hungry to be close to her.
“I must call you something.”
“You may call me…Miss S.”
“Assure me before we take this any farther that the miss is meaningful and you’re not, in fact, married—at least not to a husband still drawing breath.”
He should have asked sooner, of course.
She’d outright assured him she wouldn’t be going to bed with him, but the atmosphere in the room put every suggestion of the act square between them. Even if they didn’t so much as kiss, he couldn’t be here—not like this—with anyone else’s wife. It was too easy to put himself in another man’s boots. And he’d be damned before he could be comfortable with a…with a…“w” word of his own here, like they were now.
“You have my assurance, my lord.”
“Rule number two?”
“No unreasonable demands.”
Harland’s brows went up. “Such as?”
Her lips quirked at the corners. “We’ll know them when see them, I should think. Number three—we each have the right to refuse one demand.”
“One out of how many?”
“As many as we please.” She held up the first finger of her right hand. “But only one. And the final rule: My mask stays on.”
“Your mask?”
“My mask. Because I demand that you, my lord, take yours off.”
“You minx. You’re cheating. You’ve made one rule for yourself that doesn’t apply to me.”
Her mouth pursed in a smile she tried—and failed—to hide, revealing one surprising dimple in her left cheek. How had he not noticed such a delightful little whimsy in her features before? “Would you like to refuse this demand, my lord? Think carefully. You can only refuse once.”
Not speaking, he went to the hearth. Looking to her, he reached up, caught the bottom edge of his mask, and held on. “You’re going to be punished for this.” He swept it off his face and tossed it into the fire. “My turn.”
Miss S settled into one of the seats, skirts strewn about her, wineglass in hand. “Do your worst.”
“Tell me about the best gift you ever received.”
“Is that your idea of punishment?” Was that a note of disappointment in her voice?
“Are you stalling?”
“No, I genuinely want to know.”
“Don’t think you’ll escape so lightly. I’m going to hold onto my promise and wield it when I think most appropriate.” First, he had to wheedle information from her that might help him piece together who she was—but he had to start with something relatively innocent.
She shivered, then drew a breath as if steadying herself before answering. “A kitten.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“I said tell me about it…” He nodded to coax her onward. Teasing information required laying careful groundwork in innocuous questions before wandering into more daring territory.
“Ah. Well, all right. It was a little cream kitten, about twelve weeks old, that my father gave me for my eighth birthday. His name was Pie and he lived with me for the next twenty-one years.”
“You can’t be serious. Cats can’t live that long.”
“Pie did. My turn. Have you deduced who I am?”
“No, but I plan to before the night is out. My turn.” She’d left the opening with her story about the kitten, making his next question flow seamlessly from the first. “Who was your father?”
“Too close to asking for a name.”
He held the sensation of sinking helplessness at bay. The sky outside was still dark. A few hours were still left before dawn. He couldn’t give up, not yet.
There was more to this woman than any other he’d ever known, and yet he barely knew her. What was it he sensed? Was she ambitious? Should he be on his guard against scheming machinations?
His gut said no, that what he saw was nothing but genuine. She hadn’t a hint of artfulness about her.
But he would keep on guard.
He cast her a querying look. “Well?”
“Tell me why you still hold a debauched ball you clearly despise.”
“Am I so transparent?”
Tilting her head to the side, she considered. “It’s difficult to know what others see. I rather think they don’t notice, not most of them, anyhow. People see what they want to see, and I don’t doubt they want to see you in a certain light that serves their notions of you instead of who you really are.”
He didn’t dare ask what she made of him—what she considered really him. She saw too much. Maybe more than he’d bargained for.
Then why had he brought her to the cottage if not to reveal that which he otherwise always concealed?
“I do it because it’s tradition.”
“Is that all?”
“When you say it like that, you make it sound easy to cast away all the years of what have come before to invent myself anew.”
“Forgive me, but considering your personage, my lord, I’d hardly believe you to be trapped by any circumstance.”
“You’d be surprised.” Harland paused. “Would it shock you terribly if you knew I wanted to kiss you?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
She gave him a pointed look. “Well, do you?”
“I’m afraid I must own I do, rather.”
“Well, I would have been shocked. Until the rather.” Her mouth turned down. “That’s a bit of a blow, isn’t it?”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
She sipped the wine. “It’s your turn, my lord.”
“Come here.” He motioned for her to come forward to the floor at his feet.
She obeyed, kneeling between his knees, her gaze into his eyes steady and unblinking. She put her hands on his thighs. He’d already been well and truly hard for God knew how long. His erection flexed. The heavy material of his front falls covered only so much. If she looked down, no doubt she’d deduce what he hid there.
He wouldn’t be putting himself to bed this morning without having himself off with a youthful resurgence of vigor. There was a high likelihood of going to sleep sporting an unfortunate self-inflicted chafing wound.
As much as he anticipated the inevitable, it would do best for it to be a long time coming. Because it would mean she’d be gone forever.
A few hours until dawn—that was all he needed to remember. “Now—”
“No, it’s my turn.”
“I only told you to come here. I didn’t demand it of you.”
“Now it’s you who’s cheating.”
Harland’s voice went husky. “It’s time for your punishment, Miss S.”
The glow of the firelight cast a beguiling light over her bare upper chest. It rose and fell, rose and fell. With every inhalation, an indented line formed through the sweet swells of her breasts where her bodice cut into them.
“And what is it you demand of me, my lord?”
He smiled. Helpless as he was before her, it was time to reclaim some small measure of his power in these proceedings.
“Let down your hair.”
7
Abigail knelt before the marquess—right between his knees. The posture was so brazen, so unthinkable. She could have been offered the world and she wouldn’t have been tempted to move from her place before him. This was where she was meant to be.
Her arousal drew into a tight point. She might never have lain with a man, but there was little question as to what the heat of desire was coaxing her to do. And she’d never wanted to partake in the act so much in her life—never before wanted to surrender so absolutely, with exhaustive detail in every point of pure ruination.
Let down her hair? Were the night to take its natural course, it would be only a matter of time.
If only they weren’t fighting against the threat of tomorrow’s first light. Never before had a new day seemed so unwelcome, so repulsive.
The mostly unconsumed wine rested forgotten on the side table by the arm of his chair.
She took one of his hands. He was steady and warm. One by one, she pulled at the fingers of his gloves, loosening each in turn until the covering slipped away, baring his skin to her.
Then, with a single glance downward to lower her lashes, she caught his stare again and reached up to pull the first pin.
Beside them, the fire crackled over the dry wood, light in the room shifting and jumping as the flames consumed their prey.
Abigail dropped the pin in Harland’s open palm.
He released a shuddering breath.
She withdrew another and another, locks of hair falling with each pin she plucked until they were all collected in his hand. She shook her head, letting the strands fall where they would about her shoulders, the mask tied low enough about her head to avoid what otherwise would have been a very strange effect.
The marquess slid forward in his seat, hovering over her. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” He cupped the lower part of her face with his still-gloved hand. She nuzzled closer.
“I believe it’s my turn, my lord.”
“Yes. So it is.” He stroked her face tenderly. “What if we had more time together?”
Her heart ached for that exact thing. They might be wrapped in the warm embrace of a stolen moment now, but dawn would come, and with it, the end of their time together. “But we don’t.”
“But what if we did—what then? Tell me what you would want. Tell me your desires.”
She halted at the unexpected turn. Her desires? Things she hardly ever even admitted to herself? “I don’t know if I dare.”
“Too shocking for words?”
Abigail’s throat was dry. “Yes, my lord.”
“Now I’m all the more intrigued. You won’t escape now. You must tell me.”
“They’re not at all what a woman should be thinking.”
“Rubbish. Cast such nonsense from your mind immediately and never believe that wretched lie again.”
“Still…”
“Please, Miss S. Try to shock me.”
A charge of boldness shot up her spine and Abigail licked her lips. “I would…I would want to remove my gown.”
“Yes?” There was a breathless quality in the monosyllabic utterance. “And then?”
“I would want to lie upon your bed.” One bold turn was begetting another. “And I would want you to lie with me.”
Speaking the words aloud—saying things that she’d never dreamed could be spoken, admitting to wants that before she’d only ever deny possessing…
Were she alone, she’d have reached between her legs to touch herself. She’d have moved her hand back and forth, maybe even have slipped a finger inside of herself and rocked herself over her pressing palm until all the yearning came to a peak only to come crashing down in one breathless burst of pleasure.
He stroked her hair. “You would, would you?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me more.”
Her face flared with heat, one part mortification, two parts flourish of arousal. “I’d want you to—to touch me.”
“Good. Because I’d want to touch you. And I’d want you to touch me.”
“I’d want it to be—to be…” She swallowed. “Nice.”
“Nice?”
“Nice.”
Harland smiled. “I would want you to sit upon me and move yourself over me until you couldn’t stand it any longer. I would watch your breasts and stroke your thighs and touch you between your legs.”
Abigail couldn’t help herself. In so many ways, touching was easier. She ran a hand up his leg towards his waist, stopping only when she neared the crease of his bent hip.
He let out a moan, eyes falling shut for a moment. After depositing the pins along side the neglected wine, he slid off the chair entirely to kneel with her there on the floor. One whisper closer and their bodies would rub against each other. He grasped her arms at the elbows while she in turn took hold of his forearms. “It’s still your turn, you know. Tell me your demand, Miss S.”
“Kiss me.”
For a silent interval, it seemed he was about to invoke his right of refusal. She waited, no breath in her lungs, heart still beating only out of long-established habit.
“I don’t want you to do what you will wake tomorrow regretting.”
“Of all the possibilities scattered between us, my lord, the only one I’d regret us choosing is not making the best possible use of this night.”
“A kiss doesn’t always stop with a kiss. It can lead to other things. Two people together like this, wanting as much as we do—it can be difficult to maintain a hold on reason.”
“Hang reason. That is, so long as we’re careful…”
“You’re sure?”
“My lord, I think a part of me has been sure since you happened upon me in the gallery above the ballroom.” It took speaking the words aloud to realize how very true they were. She might be going mad. If she was, she welcomed lunacy with open arms. Just one night. One night for her most secret yearnings to be realized.
Clutching her, he tipped his head to one side and leaned close. “I still haven’t an idea of who you are.”
“I have nothing to tell you. Until t
onight, I was unknown to myself.” She’d stripped away every mask but the one on her face. “You don’t have to know my name to know me.” The double meaning of know rattled through her brain the second the last word had launched from her tongue. “And what does that matter when the only thing I wish to be tonight is yours?”
He took her into his arms in earnest then and at last—at last—their lips came together.
Harland was lost. Hopelessly. Irrevocably. They were tangled together, he and she, and whatever brought them together was a force greater then the sum of either, alone or together.
All this and he’d barely started kissing her. Lord help him, but he really wasn’t going to survive the night, was he?
He had his mouth lighting upon hers, touching and moving. He inhaled the mix of smells around them—first and foremost, the woman before him. The familiar comfort of the old cottage, the wood fire lurking somewhere back there behind the new. How long would it be before he could smell a wood fire again and not think of her?
The kiss deepened. He let his hand wander over her body, the sweet swells and the dramatically curving dips covered by the layers she wore.
“There’s a bed in the second room. What would you say if I asked you to join me there?”
She let out a little cry as his lips traced their way down her neck. “Take me.”
What further invitation did a man require?
He pushed to his feet and reached to help her to hers.
At the doorway to the room containing a bed just big enough for two, he paused with an abashment previously unknown to him in such encounters.
But this wasn’t just any encounter. This was her. Whoever she was.
“I’m so eager, I’m not sure this will be all you deserve.”
“You’re apologizing before anything’s happened, my lord.”
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
“Don’t.” She slipped her hand into his and squeezed. “I want this. Whatever it is, whatever it might be. I don’t care about oughts and shoulds, only that we have something of our own.”
He drew her the rest of the way inside the room. It was about as big as the kitchen storeroom at the main house. The laundry and servants’ rooms were larger—granted, most of the servants shared their sleeping spaces.