by Anne Stuart
The servants looked at them curiously as he pulled her through the house. It was a huge old place, with whole wings of it shut down. He seemed to know his way around it—within a few minutes they were climbing higher and higher into a part of the place that clearly hadn't been occupied in decades.
“Where are we going?" Not that it mattered. She would follow him anywhere.
“The children's rooms," he replied. "Unfortunately Montague hasn't been able to fill them." He glanced back at her. "We used to visit Montague's family when we were young. My sisters and I were relegated to the nursery, while my brother got to sleep in the main part of the house. I was very jealous." "You have an older brother?" "No," he said. "Not anymore. He died." Of course he did, she thought, stricken. He wouldn't be Viscount Rohan if there was an older son to take the title. She didn't make the mistake of saying she was sorry—his voice precluded sympathy. Clearly it was a pain that still clung to him.
He pushed open the door to a room shrouded in shadows and Holland covers, and pulled her in, closing the door behind them. He dropped her hand, and they stood there in the darkness, unmoving. "Why did you come with me?"
A trickle of fear danced in her belly, and for a moment she wondered if she was going to be sick again. He'd been toying with her, seeing how far she'd come, and now he was going to laugh at her and tell her he'd never wanted her, that this was revenge for leaving him last night. She panicked, and before he could strike the first blow that would devastate her she managed a cool laugh. "I was bored."
She could see his responding smile, seeing straight through her. "So was I... Aren't we glad we have each other to keep us entertained in such a tiresome place?" He took a step forward, and without thinking, she backed away, the uncertainty still moving through her body.
"It's not going to work if you do that." he said softly.
"Maybe that's a better idea."
"Coward," he said. He took another step toward her, and she took another one back, coming up against the closed door. He leaned forward and brushed his mouth across hers, so gently it seemed as if she'd imagined it. "Poor Charlotte,” he whispered. "You're as bad as I am.”
"What do you mean?" Her voice was only a thread of sound as his mouth traced the line of her jaw, ending up just beneath her ear, against her throbbing pulse.
"It's a waste of time to keep fighting it. We're doomed. We may as well give in." His hands were in her hair now, and she heard the hairpins fall on the floor as her neat braids fell loose around her. "Turn around, Charlotte."
"W-why?"
"Because I want to unlace your dress."
"Is that strictly necessary?"
He laughed against her throat. "Yes, it's strictly necessary. I want to see you naked. I want to lick every inch of your body. Turn around."
She turned. His hands were on her back, and she shivered, leaning her forehead against the solid door as she felt his fingers unlace her, deftly, as he'd unlaced so many other women before. She wasn't going to think about that, she told herself. She wasn't going to think at all.
The dress began to slide, catching on the narrow hoops. And then he set to work on her stays, which was a very good thing since she was having a hard time catching her breath. He freed them, then untied the ribbon that held her hoops and petticoats around her waist.
Everything fell down around her ankles in a whoosh, leaving her standing still in her chemise and stockings and drawers. She started to turn, but his hands caught her shoulders, to stop her.
"You're not naked yet.”
"I know," she said, reaching for asperity and ending up with nervousness.
"I thought we agreed you were going to get naked."
"You still have your clothes on."
"So I do," he said. "Shall we change places?"
She turned then, and he let her. In the half light, with his bruised face, he still looked beautiful. "No," she said. "You can stay there." And she reached for his neck cloth.
She'd never removed a man's neck cloth before, and it took her a moment to figure out how to untie its intricate knots. The fact that her hands were shaking didn't make things easier. At one point she tugged when the folds weren't free, and he made a faint choking sound. "Perhaps I'd better do this myself if I'm going to survive long enough to pleasure you."
She froze. Suddenly the memory of their first meeting came back to her, when he'd mocked her clumsiness, and she tried to pull back from him.
He wouldn't let her. He caught her hands and placed them against his chest. ''You're going to have to figure out how to deal with me, darling Charlotte," he said, brushing a kiss against the corner of her mouth. "I'm a very insensitive fellow half the time, and if you take offense we'll be spending all our time fighting. Or making up. On second thought, perhaps you should keep getting angry with me."
"Why?"
"Because when we make up we'll have sex, and it will be delicious."
"Can't it be delicious without fighting?"
He'd pulled the neck cloth free and handed it to her before dropping his arms. "Why don't we find out," he said in a soft voice. "Do you think you can manage the buttons?”
She could. He shrugged out of his coat. He was still in riding clothes, so he wore no vest, and the tiny pearl buttons on his snowy shirt were difficult but not impossible. At least she didn't run the risk of strangling him in the process. The shirt opened beneath her fingers, exposing his smooth, beautiful chest with just a faint sifting of hair in the center. She was fascinated by that hair. She pulled the shirt free from his breeches and pushed it off his shoulders. And then she leaned forward and pressed her face against his chest, rubbing her cheek against the softly furred part, turning her mouth against him and licking delicately, breathing in the scent of him.
He let out a ragged breath. "Get to my breeches," he begged. "Please."
"'But you said we're in no hurry," she murmured against his chest. She rubbed her face against him like a kitten, and found herself making soft purring sounds as she did so. While she was luxuriating in the touch and texture of him, he was growing ever more tense.
He took her hand and slid it down the front of his breeches, holding it there against the solid ridge of flesh. She smiled against his skin, moving her mouth downward to the flat bowl of his navel, rubbing, purring, until she sank onto her knees, pressing her cheek against his erection, letting her nose and mouth and chin brush against it through the fine wool of his breeches.
"Oh, merciful God," he muttered weakly. She put her hands up to his narrow hips, needing to hold on to something, as she caressed him with her face, her mouth, loving the feel, the freedom of it.
He held himself very still, letting her play for long minutes, as he seemed, impossibly, to grow harder and larger beneath the constricting breeches. Finally he spoke, and it sounded as if the words were being forced out. "I hate to bother you," he said politely enough, "but my breeches are becoming positively painful. At this rate I'm going to pop the stitching. The buttons are at the side."
Yes, she could feel them beneath her hands as she held him. She decided not to hesitate. These buttons decided to open easily beneath her fingers, and she caught the fabric of his breeches and underdrawers, and pulled them down, releasing him.
Even in the murky light she could see him quite clearly. His heavy penis jutted out, an invitation, and still, oddly enough, a threat. She didn't care. Grasping his hips again, she leaned forward and gently rubbed her face against him, against the solid thrust of him, against the crinkly hair at its base, rubbing and purring, letting her lips brush against his skin, rubbing her eyelids and forehead and mouth against him.
He was trembling now. And she was wet. "Take me in your mouth, Charlotte," he said with a soft groan. "I beg of you. Suck me."
She could claim her revenge now, she thought dazedly. She could rise and walk away, leaving him as insanely aroused as she had been the night before.
But she knew what she wanted, and she was tired of games. Very deli
cately she put her mouth on the tip of him, tasting a strange sweetness.
"More," he said in an anguished voice. "Please, Charlotte. Take more."
There was no way she could take all this into her mouth. But she wanted to try. She closed her mouth over the head, circling it, tugging at him. And then she sucked more in, slowly, inch by inch, her tongue touching, tasting, wetting him to make the slide easier. His hands were in her hair, not forcing her, just holding her as she pulled on him, closing tight around her so that her mouth embraced him, held him.
"Can you take more?" he whispered hoarsely.
She released him for a moment to answer, and he let out an anguished cry. "Oh, God, don't stop."
"You're too big," she said. But she sucked him in again, going deeper, taking more of him, so much that he brushed the back of her throat, and she made a little singing noise of pleasure.
She'd never imagined feeling like this, wanting this so badly. It was doubtless perversion, but she loved it, loved the taste of him, the feel of such strength inside her mouth, the way her tongue could sweep against him, the way her mouth could wrap around him. He was prompting her, and she realized he wanted her to move up and down on him, as if he were between her legs and not in her mouth. And as his pleasure grew, and his strong legs began to tremble, so did hers, so that when he suddenly pulled her away she cried out in distress, fingers digging into his hips, trying to pull him back.
Instead he hauled her to her feet. "You're not quite ready for that part, love," he said, and for a moment she was mystified.
She looked up at him. "What part? What happens next?”
"You know what happens next," he said in a hoarse voice. "I spill my seed."
"And then what happens that I'm not ready for?"
"You swallow it."
She started to sink lo her knees again, but he laughed a shaky laugh. "You'd be better served if you gave me a moment to regain my self-control and let me remove my boots. It's the least a gentleman can do."
"And you're such a gentleman."
"Not with you, love. But I'm trying."
He leaned against one of the covered beds, pulling first one boot off and then the other with more ease than she would have expected. And then his clothes followed, and he was naked, gorgeous, just a little bit frightening.
"Take off your chemise and your drawers," he said. "You don't want me tearing them again. You'd soon run out of clothes."
She was suddenly shy. Silly way to be, considering what she'd just done to him, but her hands shook and she wondered how she could reach up under the chemise without exposing herself to his curious eyes--
He moved forward, took the hem of the chemise and whipped it over her head with one smooth movement. And a second later, the drawstring to her drawers was loosened, and they fell to her feet, and she was wearing nothing at all but her stockings.
"Oh, God," he said, a curse, a supplication, a prayer. He pushed her up against the door, just behind her, lifted her by her legs and thrust inside her, hard.
She was shocked by his sudden move, his immediate invasion. That they were standing shocked her, that it felt so good. He slid deep, painlessly, and she knew that was why she was wet. For him. She threw her arms around his neck, holding on tightly, as her body did what her mouth had done, clasping him, holding him, as he thrust up into her, a hard, steady, relentless rhythm that had her gasping for breath, shivering in reaction, unable to move herself as he pinned her against the door, simply receiving his half-frantic thrusts, wanting more and more.
His skin was covered with a thin film of sweat, his face against her neck, his fingers tight on her hips. A climax rocked her, the climax she'd been cheated of the night before, and she could feel herself shatter, losing all sense of anything but the blinding, mindless pleasure he gave her.
He held still, letting her ripple and clench around him, and when the first throes had died he swung her away from the door, never breaking their joining, carrying her across the room to the Holland-covered bed. He tried to set them both down without breaking their connection but she tumbled away from him and he slipped free, and she found she could giggle.
"Heartless wench," he growled, coming down on one knee on the bed. "Turn over."
She stilled, looking up at him questioningly. "Turn over," he said again. "And get on your knees. You know I won't hurt you. Don't you?"
Yes, she knew. She did as she was told, for a moment feeling embarrassed, undignified. But there was no dignity to be sought in sex, and she felt his mouth at the small of her back, heard his sigh of dreamlike appreciation. "You're beautiful, you know," he murmured, his hands sliding over her back, pulling her forward so that she rested on her elbows. 'Tour skin is like cream. I want you every way I can." His fingers slid over her buttocks, hard, caressing, then moved down between her legs, to the wetness there, and she jumped, her sensitized flesh quivering.
He rubbed her, spreading the dampness, and he slid his long fingers inside her, making her start. And then she pushed back against his hand, wanting more.
A moment later she felt his hard thighs at the back of hers, his cock nudging at her damp sex. And when he pushed in again it was tighter, deeper, rubbing against a different place that suddenly made her climax again, a long, powerful shudder. He held her, one hand palming the front of her to hold her steady.
'Try not to come so hard, love," he said in a shaky laugh. "You're pushing me out again. And I need to be deep inside you."
His words made another paroxysm hit her, and she was powerless to do anything about it. "I can't... stop it," she said, dropping her head down on the heavy linen cover that smelted of bleach and sunlight and dust. "Just let me..." Her momentary breath was enough, and he pushed in, deeper than he'd ever been before, so deep she could taste him again.
His fingers tightened on her hips, and it was as if permission had finally been granted. He thrust into her, fast now, so hard she had to muffle her cries into the covers beneath her, again and again and again, and she knew if he pulled out she'd die, she needed him, spilling inside her, she needed him filling her, over and over.
He took one hand from her hip, slid it around in front of her and rubbed his palm against that magic place, just as his cock slid along a spot so powerful inside her that even the mattress couldn't muffle her shriek, and with a final, slamming thrust he climaxed, inside her, and her body pulled him deeper rather than pushing him away as she dissolved.
It seemed to last forever, his rigid outpouring that seemed to scald her very heart, her shivering, clenching, mindless release, and all she could think was more, more, more, and then suddenly it was enough, and they collapsed together onto the narrow, dusty bed.
22
Etienne de Giverney was a very unhappy man. He had spent a lifetime in search of the legacy he deserved, he'd broken the laws of God and man, and just when it looked as if it was in his reach that overgrown, red-headed bitch had thrown all his plans in the sewer.
It was impossible. Three weeks ago, when he saw Adrian head after her instead of sharing drink and decadence with him, he'd assumed he was perfectly safe. The girl was awkward, older than his cousin's son and heir, ordinary looking and too outspoken. He would fuck her once and abandon her.
But he hadn't. He hadn't emerged from that little room he kept, preferring his privacy to the audience most of the Heavenly Host preferred. And Etienne was there under sufferance. Not a member, not even a guest, but a hanger-on to be tolerated. Oh, they laughed with him, gambled with him. But he knew the English and their misguided sense of superiority.
Etienne had finally chosen to interfere. It hadn't been that difficult, to tease Adrian into leaving her behind. And just to make certain she didn't cause any more trouble he'd arranged her tumble down the cliff before he caught up with Adrian.
She hadn't hit her head, or suffered more than a few bruises. More damnable luck. And the men he'd hired to finish Adrian for good had bungled. They'd waited too long. He'd turned away from ho
me instead of coming toward them, and their necessary pursuit had ruined everything.
Etienne had been waiting at Adrian's house, prepared for the tragic news, when that stupid English vicar had helped him into the house. It had taken all Etienne's sangfroid to keep from screaming in rage.
And then the moment Pagett had informed Adrian that Charlotte Spenser would be in Sussex what must he do but go haring off almost immediately, like a love-starved moonling. Who would have thought Etienne had done everything he could to stop him, but for some reason his influence over Adrian was waning. It wouldn't be long before he was dropped, and he'd lose his entree to anywhere in English society.
He wasn’t going to let that happen.
Indeed, it wasn't his fault. The heir, Charles Edward, had been too much like his father, with a neck-or-nothing style in all of life. He rushed into things without thinking them through, and it hadn't taken long to goad him into riding Etienne's favorite horse, Meutrier. With typical English arrogance he hadn't known that the horse's name, and temperament, meant "murderer." The horse was mad, there was no other word for it. He'd been abused, and only Etienne could ride him.
But Charles Edward didn't like being told he couldn't do something. The fall had broken his back. The pneumonia that followed had carried finished the job, leaving Francis Rohan with only one heir.
It had been child's play to corrupt Adrian. He was already well on his way by the time he was twenty-five, old in the ways of sin and decadence. It wouldn't take much for Adrian to succumb. Opium was a dangerous drug, the interesting concoctions he made from plants could be even worse, and he had watched Adrian use them indiscriminately, with his help, of course.
An overdose would be so easy, but he preferred not to help things along. Adrian had been doing just fine by himself. His wretched father, Francis, was old now, close to seventy. He couldn't live that much longer, though he seemed damnably healthy. If Adrian predeceased him Francis would quickly follow, and there would be no one but Etienne to step into the title, the house, the monies.