A Convenient Engagement

by Kimberly Bell

  “I can,” the older woman said with soft regret. She breathed deeply, and the moment was gone, but some of the softness remained in her eyes. “I suppose since she is engaged, she might be excused from some of the strictures that would normally be placed on an eligible young woman.”

  “I am so glad you think so,” Gavan said, knowing the sentiment would carry with the dowager duchess’s endorsement.

  Ewan took this as his cue to leave, and he headed in Hannah’s direction after exchanging farewells. The dowager moved to head into the crowd but turned back at the last minute.

  “Rhone.”

  Gavan paused his assessment of the best route to the card room. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “It is quite unfashionable for a man to be so openly besotted of his lady.” The statement lacked her usual rigidity.

  Gavan smiled. “I remember saying something very similar to your husband on a number of occasions.”

  A girlish blush rose to her cheeks. She nodded to him with a twinkle in her eye and disappeared into the crush.

  * * *

  Hannah stared at the man across from her. While botany was not her strongest area of study, she was not unversed in the subject. This conversation, however, was proving to be quite perplexing.

  “I confess, I am utterly fascinated by flowers,” he said in a low voice.

  “Really? Any genus in particular?” A few of her father’s acquaintances had been devoted botanists.

  “Anything with petals, really.” He gave her a strange look. “I find them quite stimulating, especially when they’re damp with a fresh morning dew.”

  A large hand clapped down on his shoulder as Mr. Dalreoch inserted himself into the conversation.

  “Oh aye? That’s right fascinating. Why dinnae we head to yonder alcove and speak about it in private.”

  “I would really rather n—” The man yelped as the Scot’s hand squeezed noticeably. “All right. Yes. Let’s . . . go over there.”

  Gavan’s cousin tipped an imaginary hat to Hannah as he towed her companion off toward the edge of the room.

  This was the third of Hannah’s admirers that had been culled in such a fashion. The Scot would spend a few moments of intense discussion with them, and they would flee to the opposite side of the ballroom.

  “What the devil was the matter with that one?” Hannah hadn’t been particularly enamored of his conversation, but soon she would have no one left to talk to.

  “He was being indecent.”

  “Since when are flowers indecent?”

  “He wasnae talking about flowers.”

  “Of course he was. He said he liked petals. He found them—”

  “He wasnae talking about flowers!” The Scot’s cheeks attained a pinkish hue.

  “If he wasn’t talking about flowers, what was all that petal nonsense?”

  He stared at her mulishly, refusing to speak while his face transitioned to a deep crimson.

  Hannah ran her mind through the possibilities. When it came to her, she gasped. “No. Really?”

  “Aye.” He looked murderous.

  “That’s . . . that’s . . .” Hannah searched for the word.

  “Indecent,” Ewan declared. “The whole bloody lot of them.”

  He scanned the room, preparing to launch an inquisition on the entire ballroom. When he went completely still, Hannah found herself standing on her tiptoes to see what had stopped his progress. A man who could have been Gavan’s twin stood in the entrance to the ballroom.

  “What on earth?” For a moment Hannah thought it was Gavan, changed into somber black evening attire, but closer inspection showed a straw-colored wisp of hair escaping his wig.

  “Courseclay,” Ewan growled.

  “Rhone’s brother?” Hannah’s question startled the Scot.

  “Aye,” he said, turning back to her. “Gavan cannae know he’s here. It’ll be the black rage all over again.”

  “What can I do?” Hannah remembered Rhone’s last dark mood vividly. She was not keen to see it repeated in the middle of a crowded ballroom.

  “Take him somewhere he willnae see or hear about it until I can convince John to leave.” Ewan had returned his stare to Gavan’s mirror image, heading toward them across the ballroom. “Ye’ll find him at the cards.”

  Hannah set off with purpose, yesterday’s conversation in the Conduitt sitting room echoing through her mind. She was infinitely curious about Gavan’s half brother, but she had to get to Gavan before he heard anything. Any dramatics involving either of them would spread like brushfire. She slowed her pace and took a moment to steady her breathing before she entered the room. Gavan’s latest gift had proven he could be far too observant when he chose to be, and she didn’t need him realizing something was afoot.

  She heard them before she saw them. The booming voice of Lord Maxwell immediately drew her attention to the back of the room where Gavan’s gold jacket was impossible to mistake. She deduced that third gentleman slumped across the table was the unfortunate Lord Davenport.

  “Here comes trouble.” Lord Maxwell had the chair facing the door and was the first to see her.

  Rhone broke into a wide smile. They stood to welcome her arrival, Maxwell giving a sharp boot to Davenport’s chair to startle him into a standing position. It was wobbly at best, and he collapsed back to his seat nearly immediately.

  “To what do we owe this singular honor?” Gavan bowed over her hand formally and placed a kiss in the center of her palm.

  She cocked an eyebrow at him but couldn’t hide her flush. She was immediately transported to the memory of their sensual encounter in her hallway. Rhone’s eyes twinkled mischievously at her from just above her palm.

  “How drunk is he?” she asked Lord Maxwell.

  “Rhone? A bit marinated, but he’s still competent.” Maxwell had returned to his chair and was dealing out cards to himself and Davenport. He checked Davenport’s hand. “You’re going to want to bet heavy on that.”

  The inebriated man mumbled something into the felt and shoved a stack of markers toward the center. Maxwell matched Davenport’s bet and traded out some of his cards with the deck. Another indistinguishable mumble came from Davenport.

  “No cards, you say? Bold move, son.” Maxwell flipped both of their hands over. “Ah, damn. I thought you had it there. The eight high was looking strong.” Lord Maxwell swept the markers to his side of the table.

  Hannah was distracted from the robbery occurring at the table by the feeling of Gavan’s thumb tracing a light circle into her palm.

  “Are you also looking to be led down the road to ruin?” She asked in a low voice.

  His hand stilled. “Absolutely.”

  * * *

  The key clicked in the door lock. With his extensive knowledge of the Conduitt residence, it had been easy to find this little-used parlor on the second floor to secret away to. Gavan tossed his wig on a nearby table and leaned against the door, letting himself watch Hannah as she perused the room curiously.

  She wanted him. He wasn’t alone in this need to take her away from everyone and have her to himself. Gavan hadn’t realized he was worried about that until he felt it melt out of him. Giddiness mixed with intoxication, and he pulled Hannah to him when she wandered back within his reach.

  “Oof.” She stumbled, catching herself with hands on his chest, and looked up at him with her impossible honey eyes. Her smile was slow and sultry. “Does this mean you’re prepared to abandon honorable behavior?”

  “No.” The word came out low, almost inaudible, as he placed his palm on the side of her neck. He used his thumb to position her jaw perfectly, and he let his fingers tangle themselves into the loose arrangement of her curls. “But I intend to be extremely liberal in my definition of ‘honorable.’”

  The sweet, familiar line of her raised eyebro
w disappeared as his lips collided with hers. He put every ounce of the evening’s jealousy into the kiss. His lips claimed hers, conquered them. His arm wrapped around her waist, hauling her against his body and holding her there. A possessive growl tore its way through his chest when her mouth opened eagerly in response.

  He kissed her until her hands clenched in the fabric of his waistcoat, until they were both delirious from it and gasping for breath. When he let her up for air, he launched a steady assault on her skin. The space where her pulse beat beneath her ear was claimed first. Second, the edge of her jaw, then the column of her neck. He paid homage to the exposed flesh of her bosom with his lips.

  A heavy sigh from Hannah created an opportunity, and Gavan tugged expertly on her bodice, exposing pert, dusky nipples. With lips and teeth, he added them to his list of conquests, Hannah’s wordless cries spurring him on. He used his hold on her waist to turn them, pinning her against the closed door.

  “Do you want me, Hannah?” His newly freed hand sought hers, twining their fingers together.

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  He released his grip on her hair and captured her wrist, raising her hands to the wall on either side of her head. “Say it,” he commanded against her lips, their breath mingling.

  “I want you,” she gasped, desire crackling in her eyes as they met his own.

  Gavan kissed her, quick and rough, his hips surging against hers at the words. “Say my name,” he demanded.

  “Gavan. I want you, Gavan.” She strained against his hold on her hands, and he let them go. Her fingers dove into his hair, dragging his lips down for a claiming of her own.

  The kiss steadied his chaotic need to possess her, leaving surging lust behind it. His hands went to work, digging through miles of fabric until they found the smooth satin of her stockings. He grabbed her thighs, hauling her up and wrapping her legs around his waist. Hannah’s exhalation of surprise mixed with lust vibrated through his body.

  His slid his palms up her naked thighs, molding across her hips, and around to her . . . What was this?

  “Hannah?”

  “Gavan?” She looked glorious; tousled, lustful, and completely dazed.

  “Have you been deliberately keeping this glorious backside from me?”

  * * *

  Hannah’s cheeks heated like a bonfire. Gavan flexed his palms, squeezing the abundant flesh again. “Christ, that’s heavenly.”

  “You . . . like it?”

  “I more than like it, Hannah. I’ve only touch to go on at the moment, but I’m fairly certain you could raise a man from the dead with a backside like that.” His voice had returned to a sensual growl, and the heat in his eyes added a new layer of flush.

  “You don’t think it’s . . . base?” Hannah had the distinct impression that overly plump backsides were reserved for dairy maids and other rustic types.

  Gavan laughed, a low, rumbling sound. “Oh yes, it’s plenty base. The things it makes me want to do to you are far from refined. If I told you even a tenth of them, you would push me down the stairs again.” He demonstrated his point by taking a firm grip on her flesh, using it to roll her hips forward and back against the rigid length of his manhood.

  The sensation drove through her like lightning. “Bloody hell.”

  He chuckled again, but it was strained. His breath against the side of her neck was coming in labored bursts. “Did you like that?” he asked, lips whispering against her earlobe.

  She didn’t bother answering him. The infuriating man knew exactly how much she liked it.

  His hands continued to squeeze and caress her in a delicious shifting pressure. He didn’t roll her hips again—Hannah thought she would certainly have lost all sense if he had—but the smaller motions were no less intimate, and she felt the liquid heat pooling at her center.

  “Hannah?” he asked after a moment.

  “Mmm?” She wished he had more hands. The feel of them there, on the flesh of her backside, was too new and exciting to abandon, but she ached for his touch other places.

  “I have to see it.”

  “You have to . . . What? No.”

  “I must. Don’t worry. All you have to do is stand there.” He had already set her back on the floor and was turning her away from him.

  “This is ludicrous. Why?”

  “It would be difficult to explain.”

  “You’re going to ogle my—” She couldn’t say it out loud. It was too ridiculous. “And what do I get out of this?”

  He paused in the act of slowly lifting her skirt, kneeling behind her. Only her ankles had been exposed. “Anything. Name it.”

  “Anything at all? It’s just a backside. You want to see it that badly?”

  “Yes.” He had dropped one hand to the back of her calf and was massaging slow, seductive circles.

  Gods, what was he doing to her? If he kept touching her like that, she’d lift her skirts and let him ogle anything he liked. “Fine. A boon, any boon to be claimed whenever I choose.”

  The immediate rising progress of her skirts up the back of her legs indicated his acceptance of the terms. He gathered the fabric of her skirt and bottom of the hoop and slowly started lifting them. The material dragged against the backs of her legs, a thousand times more sensitive because each friction meant more of herself was being revealed.

  She nearly had a heart palpitation when he placed a gentle, biting kiss behind her knee. Each inch of torturously slow progress earned another kiss on the newly exposed skin. By the time her skirts neared their destination, Hannah was slick with desire and on the verge of hyperventilating.

  When the skirts finally ascended all the way to her waist, Hannah stopped breathing, anticipation building. There was no sound at all, just the steady rush of Rhone’s breath against the back of her thighs.

  “Beautiful,” he finally said with reverence.

  Hannah exhaled shakily. The entire situation was beyond comprehension.

  “Hold them up for me, Hannah.”

  For the love of God. She craned to look at him over her shoulder. “You said I just had to stand here.”

  He looked up and used that smooth whiskey voice that was halfway between a purr and a growl. “You like it when I touch you, don’t you, minx?”

  She glared down at him.

  “If you let me have my hands free, I promise you’ll like what I do with them.” He leaned forward and ran his teeth lightly across the plump curve in front of him.

  Hannah faced the wall again, muttering every curse she knew, and gathered the bunched fabric in her clenched fists. She felt his mouth curve into a smile against her skin. His satisfied murmur vibrated through her flesh. The tips of his fingers swept down her hips, framing them for his view. His hands came around to cup her buttocks, thumbs tracing a firm line along the crease formed at the top of her thigh. He held tight to each firm globe, lifting, separating.

  Gods, that felt amazing.

  “Now that I’ve met this glorious backside of yours, I intend to remedy the gross neglect it has endured, hidden away under miles of skirts.”

  “And just how to do you plan to keep that promise?” If he thought she was going to let him do this whenever he wished—well, she might just, at that.

  “Put your feet apart a little, and bend forward.”

  Hannah’s imagination supplied the pose from his viewpoint, and her mind blanked from shock. “Absolutely not.”

  “Please?”

  “No, you wicked degenerate.”

  He was silent for a moment, his mouth pressed against her hip in thought. “I’ll give you a second boon.”

  She was going to refuse. She was all set to do it. But then he let his hands drift up the backs of her legs. They came to rest at the juncture where her thighs pressed together, his thumbs just shy of the ache pulsing in her core. All she co
uld think of, all her mind could hold, was the thought of his touch there. She rested her head against the door and did as he asked.

  “Hannah.” His voice sounded strangled. His fingers twitched against the back of her thigh.

  She was going to murder him if he didn’t put her out of her misery.

  When he finally moved, Hannah had to bite her lip to keep quiet. One hand returned to massaging the round flesh of her backside. The other played along the inside of her thighs, tracing its way through the slick honey that had escaped the apex.

  His breathing grew ragged to match her own.

  Hannah felt the whisper of a touch stroke across her womanhood. It came again with more pressure, and she sucked in a breath.

  “Do you want me to stop?” The question came out choked, as if the words fought him.

  “Don’t you dare,” she said to the door.

  The stroke repeated, this time slipping between her folds and into the wet heat of her.

  Gavan groaned. “My sweet minx. You’ll be the death of me.”

  He set his strokes to a languid rhythm, sweeping up to the sensitive nub that drove all thought from Hannah’s mind, then back down to the source of her heat. Sometimes he would venture into that heat; the times he didn’t, Hannah whimpered her dissatisfaction.

  “Turn around for me, love. I’ll fix it.”

  She was so far gone, she didn’t question him. She just turned, his kneeling form in front of her. One of his hands framed her hip, steadying her, the other lifting her leg onto his shoulder. There was no time to process how exposed she was before his mouth set to work.

  Bloody hell.

  His clever, clever mouth. It came down on the place where all of her nerve endings seemed to meet. Quick, deft strokes of his tongue were followed by slow, intense pressure as he made love to her most sensitive spot with lips and tongue.

  When his hand returned, penetrating her slick channel, Hannah felt the laws of gravity give way. The pull of the earth’s surface was no match for the push and pull of that steady intrusion. Her own hands held her skirts. She had nothing to bite on, no surface to press her face against to try to dampen her cries. She moaned and cursed and yelled, and he responded to the sounds with devilish precision.