“Only one kiss?”
“Just one.”
Surely she could brace herself for the impact.
He patted the brocade seat beside him. “Come, sit here with me.”
It was absurd, quivering here like a timorous doe. Determined to hold her own with him, Venetia crossed to stand before him.
He waited to speak until she sat down gingerly beside him. “Now remove your mask. There is little pleasure in kissing when half your face is hidden away.”
When she complied, he studied her for several heartbeats. “That is much better. It is a shame to conceal your most attractive feature.”
Venetia regarded him suspiciously. “What feature is that?”
“Your eyes. You have beautiful eyes.”
She stifled a scoff. “I am not susceptible to your flattery, Lord Traherne.”
“Your beauty is simply a fact, like the heavens growing light when the sun rises.”
Inwardly Venetia chided herself for the warmth kindling inside her. Of course his compliments appealed to her feminine vanity. But compliments were the stock and trade of a Lothario. Traherne had females of all ages falling over him, including her own sister. She utterly refused to show the same weakness. The trouble was, the look he was giving her called to some wanton instinct inside her.
“Come closer. You are too far away.”
She was perched on the edge of the seat, so she inched a little closer. Shutting her eyes, she tilted her face up to his and held still.
A long moment passed. When nothing happened, she pried one eye open. “What are you waiting for?”
“You must kiss me, sweetheart.”
Curbing an oath, she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his briefly. Even that fleeting contact with his warm lips jolted her, making her think of a crackling fire in winter.
“You can do better than a mere peck. Do you need assistance?” A smile loitered about his sensuous mouth, softening his mockery.
“I can manage on my own.”
She would comply but on her own terms. When she raised her arms to place her hands on his shoulders, though, her reticule bumped against his chest. Grateful for the distraction, Venetia removed the strings from around her wrist and set the silk bag on her lap, biding for time.
“I am willing to instruct you if need be.”
“I know how to kiss,” Venetia declared. “I just dislike doing so under duress—and particularly with you.”
“You wound me, love.”
“Not severely enough, obviously.”
He looked faintly amused, as if he were enjoying her discomfiture. He also looked aroused, judging by the expression on his face. He wanted her, she could tell by the sultry gleam in his eyes.
The knowledge made her breathless before she even began, but she had delayed as long as possible. Steeling herself for the renewed shock, she moved closer and touched her lips to his, holding the contact for the space of several heartbeats.
Only then did he assume responsibility. His kiss was soft this time, not taking but offering, yet even that gossamer pressure had the same magical impact as before. All her senses felt assaulted.
Then, parting her lips, his tongue slid into her mouth. She knew she ought not give in, but his kiss was too enticing. Long moments later his hand cupped her bare shoulder and drew her closer, pressing her against his hard, muscular body, stirring a restless ache low and deep in her feminine center.
Venetia made a sound between a sigh and a whimper. In response, his kiss only deepened. His taste was so delectable. His tongue stroked against hers, tangling in a sensual dance, twining in a long sensuous pattern of withdrawal and penetration.
With consummate ease, he shifted his position, leaning back against the incline of the chaise until she was draped over his muscled, lithe-limbed form. Somehow without her realizing it, she had abdicated control. Warmth radiated up from his chest, infusing her breasts with a delicious heaviness. And he was assailing her mouth with such languor—molding, teasing, tempting, and beguiling….
With the slow awakening of desire, Venetia felt herself yielding, felt her resistance dissolving. Her bones were melting with the heat.
When he shifted beneath her again, one of his knees separated hers. Through her skirts she felt the pressure of his sinewy thigh against her femininity. Venetia tensed. Her heart pounded so loudly, she was certain he could hear it.
She knew a little about what to expect from physical relations. Her friend Cleo had endured a dreadfully unhappy marriage and had wanted her to be prepared. And in Paris, Venetia had explored her long-repressed artistic talent and studied sculpture, including the nude male form. But stone and bronze renderings were a far cry from a live man. And despite her revealing gown, her portrayal of sexual sophistication was largely a pretense.
Then she heard the change in Traherne’s rhythmic breathing and realized that certain parts of him had throbbed to life. Venetia shivered. She knew what that male hardness at his loins meant. He was aroused from their brazen intimacy.
His physical reaction instilled an unexpected feeling of triumph inside her. A heady sensation that made her light-headed. She relaxed against him, welcoming the thrilling shocks of heat. He was so vital, so wickedly irresistible. His wonderful mouth held the beguiling promise of answers to a thousand erotic questions.
She never wanted him to stop, but when eventually he did, disappointment flooded her. His lips only moved to her cheek, though. The warm mist of his breath caressed her temple while his hand cradled her throat.
“Sweet Venetia…” he murmured, his voice husky and edged with desire.
His thumb stroked the softness of her collarbone before gliding lower. She hadn’t worn a chemise, for the straps would have shown beneath her revealing gown, and her corset pushed up her breasts from below.
When his knuckles skimmed over the exposed swells, then slipped down below her bodice to brush her nipple, her breath spiraled away from her. His fingers plucked gently before pulling the velvet down, sending another hot ripple of weakness surging through her. When he cradled one breast in his palm, Venetia whimpered at the feverish surge of pleasure that sensuous caress engendered.
At the soft sound, he kissed her arched throat, then drew back to stare at her. His eyes had grown darker, and she was caught by the hypnotizing heat in the blue depths. Desire shimmered between them, filling the air.
His perusal followed the line of her throat to her bare breasts, his expression intent, powerful, and oh so admiring. She couldn’t prevent the shameful tingling of her breasts or the insistent quivering between her thighs.
Her heart thudded harder. She was achingly aware of the soft seduction in those stunning eyes, the play of lamplight on his features, the way the golden blush of the flame gilded his hair….
He bent his head, his lips feathering over her flesh with exquisite pressure till he captured the pouting crest. Venetia gasped at the bright flare of sensation as his tongue circled the areola, laving the taut bud.
Helplessly she raised her hands to slide them into the thick, silky strands of his hair. A tremor shook her. She felt overwhelmed with sensation as his practiced fingers aided his mouth, encouraging her response, coaxing her. When he tasted her other nipple in turn, fire streaked through her, creating an intense yearning inside.
Surrendering, Venetia arched her back against his wicked caress. The brazen need that coiled inside her became a wild, insistent throbbing in her blood. Her breathing was ragged and out of control.
He went on arousing her, teasing the furled bud with his velvet-rough tongue, suckling gently with his warm mouth. A moan escaped her lips at his tantalizing devil’s sorcery.
Devil…sorcery…seduction…
What in heaven’s name was she doing reveling here in a dimly lit bedchamber with this utterly beguiling hedonist?
With desperate strength, she began to resist the searing pleasure he ignited in her, the powerful urges in her body. She was half sprawled over
him, though, which put her at an extreme disadvantage.
With one hand, she groped for the reticule on her lap and finally managed to loosen the strings. Pushing the opening wider, she felt blindly for the handle of her knife in its leather case. Forcibly then, she struggled to push herself up, and in one shaky motion, unsheathed the blade and held it to his throat.
Traherne froze, then blinked at her. His features were heavy and drugged, but the sensuality faded as understanding dawned.
Then amazingly, he chuckled, dismissing the deadly blade at his throat as if it were nothing more than a child’s threat.
“Don’t force me to hurt you, my lord,” she warned in a hoarse voice.
He pressed his forehead against hers and gave another ragged laugh, as if straining for willpower, then caught her wrist and pushed aside the knife.
“You have already hurt me, love. This is twice tonight that you have left me aching.”
There was an unmistakable spark of humor in his voice as he glanced down at his satin breeches and the large bulge there that proclaimed his male arousal.
Venetia lowered her head to follow his gaze, but he lifted her chin with the curve of a forefinger, compelling her to look at his face.
“Never mind. I achieved my objective.”
It was Venetia’s turn to blink, hers at the tender, amused light in his eyes. Her head was still swimming with the intense sensation of being held in his arms, subjected to his magical kisses, and her dreamlike state had left her weak and unfocused. Thus, it took her a moment to comprehend what he had said.
“What do you mean? What objective?”
“I disarmed you.”
“I still hold my knife.”
“But I have taken away your leverage. You don’t want your sister to know you have been kissing me. Now you will have to tell her, and what will she say?”
Her gaze narrowed. “That was your intent all along—to prevent me from exposing you to my sister.”
He had the audacity to look amused. “Forgive me, but yes. Although, I must admit, I enjoyed kissing you immensely.”
Her thoughts whirling, Venetia scrambled to sit up and moved to the end of the chaise to put some distance between them. “You are a devil.”
“I have been called worse. Straighten your bodice, darling. You don’t want to reveal your lovely charms to any of the gentlemen below and have them ogling you the way Knowlsbridge did.”
Aghast that her naked breasts were still bared to his gaze, she fumbled to rearrange her bodice.
In her simmering silence, Traherne straightened his own clothing and rose from the chaise, then held out his hand to her. “Come now, I will escort you to your carriage and send you home.”
His declaration left her sputtering and speechless. Ignoring his outstretched hand, Venetia stood but kept her knife at the ready.
“Don’t forget your mask, love,” Traherne suggested.
She searched around her and discovered it had fallen to the floor during his seduction.
Distracted, she managed to replace the mask and tie the strings behind her turban while chafing at his underhanded methods. He had kissed her into dazed insensibility and imperiled whatever moral standards she once possessed.
Venetia was thoroughly dismayed she had permitted him to go so far. How could she be so weak-willed? All her caution and resistance had been annihilated by warm, hungry desire. Traherne had mesmerized her, excited her, aroused her.
Much worse, he had effectively neutralized her threat to expose him as a Lothario. Although her goals were laudable, she could not possibly tell her sister that she was trying to break up Traherne’s courtship of Ophelia and spoil their romance. Ophelia would only think her bitter and jealous because of lingering wounds from her shattered betrothal.
Venetia was disgusted with herself—and her anger showed in her tone when she finally spoke.
“I am warning you, my lord, keep away from my sister. She won’t follow in my footsteps if I can help it. I mean to fight for her with the last breath in my body.”
“An admirable sentiment but unnecessary. I don’t plan to propose to your sister anytime in the near future.”
“And you never will if I have my way.”
“I will call on you tomorrow at Mrs. Newcomb’s home to discuss the situation in depth. For now I want you safe.”
His offer took Venetia aback, as did his interest in her safety. Disbelieving, she peered at him through her mask. “You truly mean to continue our conversation tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Will you swear it?”
“I give you my solemn word. What is Mrs. Newcomb’s direction in Kensington?”
His reply mollified her the slightest degree. She might not trust him, but she did not believe he would lie to her face. “It is two miles past Hyde Park, on Melbury Road, Number Twenty-three.”
“Come,” Traherne urged. “There is a back exit from the club. I will take you to your carriage.”
When she stood debating his sincerity, he smiled that charming, self-deprecating smile that never failed to make her stomach flutter. “If it is any consolation, you struck a grave blow to my self-esteem. This is a first for me, leaving a bedchamber before a lady is completely satisfied.”
“It is no consolation at all,” Venetia muttered as she returned her knife to its sheath and tucked it inside her reticule.
“If you wish, we can remain here and take our kissing further.”
She took a defensive step backward, but his offer settled the issue. “Not if my life depended upon it.”
Laughing softly, Traherne escorted her from the room, and together they went downstairs. After gathering her cloak and his greatcoat and tall beaver hat from the majordomo, he led her through a corridor to a rear door. Once again Venetia grew wary, but when she hesitated, he reassured her by explaining: “The stable mews can be reached from this exit rather than waiting to have your carriage delivered to the front door.”
She nodded, realizing this was how patrons slipped in and out of the sin club to maintain their privacy.
Outside, they descended a short flight of steps into a foggy mist. The laughter and music grew quieter as they followed a dimly lit pathway toward the rear of the property.
The night air was cool and damp, making Venetia glad for her cloak. When her satin evening slippers made her stumble on the uneven ground, Traherne took her arm to steady her. She tried to pull back from his touch, but he wouldn’t release her.
“Be at ease, Miss Stratham. I am merely suffering an outburst of protectiveness this evening.”
She gave an unwilling laugh. “What a singular interpretation of events. Is that how you exhibit protectiveness, by corrupting me and luring me into lewd behavior?”
He flashed her a grin. “I didn’t even begin to corrupt you. You kissed me, you will recall.”
“Technically, perhaps, but you forced my compliance. And I wound up your helpless victim.”
“Hardly.” He sent an amused glance down at her reticule, which concealed her knife. “You are one of the least helpless females I know. Besides, I wanted to demonstrate the dangers of your coming to a brothel alone.”
“That you did.”
He had warned her of the hazard from drunken gamesters like Knowlsbridge, but the greater danger by far came from Traherne himself.
“I would never permit my sister to come to a place like Tavistock’s,” he remarked.
“Fortunately you are not my brother—or any relation at all.”
“I agree, it is fortunate,” he said amiably.
“I am not your responsibility,” Venetia declared, although she had to admire him for championing his sister.
“At just this moment you are.”
Seeing the futility of arguing further, Venetia fell silent. Despite her frustration with Traherne, having his tall, solid form beside her made her feel safer as they negotiated the dark path.
They passed through a rear gate and reached the all
ey that led to the livery serving this district of London. In the distance, she could see a bustling stable yard illuminated by torches and lamplight, filled with teams and vehicles of all kinds.
As they grew closer, she could hear the male camaraderie of servants waiting for their masters, and make out small groups of coachmen, grooms, and outriders huddling together for warmth and companionship.
“Which carriage is Mrs. Newcomb’s?”
“It is a barouche,” she said, her gaze searching the crowd.
“There is my landau,” Traherne pointed out.
Glancing to her left, she recognized his crest on the door panel. Venetia was vaguely aware of the shadowy figures loitering near his carriage, leaning against the wall of the stable block, but thought nothing of it until a rough male voice called out, “M’lord Traherne?”
“Yes?” he answered.
One of the shadows detached from the group and approached them. It was a heavyset man, his face partially concealed by a low-brimmed hat and dark scarf. He looked to be the sort of prizefighter Venetia had seen at county fairs, all muscle and brute force. She barely had time to register the impression before he suddenly lowered his head and charged forward like an enraged bull, heading straight for them at a dead run.
Venetia was too stunned to react, but at the last second, Traherne pushed her aside, making her gasp. He took the brunt of the impact yet still somehow managed to spin so that the brute went flying face-first to sprawl on the ground.
It all happened too swiftly for her to comprehend, but two more beefy men jumped out of the shadows and rushed toward the earl, cudgels raised, fists swinging.
To his credit Traherne was more agile than his attackers. Raising his own fists, he let fly a punch that felled the second ruffian, then dodged a blow from a third.
Grunts and growls followed as Venetia watched in alarm, unsure if the thugs were attempting to beat Traherne to a pulp or trying to kill him. Either way she was frightened for him.
The scene was surreal, something out of a bad dream. For a moment she stood there frozen, heart pounding, shock making her sluggish. When the first bruiser climbed to his feet to join his comrades in a fresh assault, though, she finally broke out of her paralysis. Wishing she could aid Traherne somehow, she let out a piercing scream to summon help, but knew it would come too late to save him.
The Art of Taming a Rake (Legendary Lovers #4) Page 4