Gail Ranstrom

by The Courtesans Courtship

  He couldn’t recall how many times had he done this, and with how many women. Countless. Yet this time was different. This time he was filled with a tenderness he’d never known before. This time he would trade his soul to make it perfect for Dianthe.

  She paused in her exploration again as her fingertips traced the raised welt she’d inflicted when practicing the passato sotto. The cut was shallow and thin, no more than a sting, but she was distressed. Her tender conscience bothered him. Would she ever be able to defend herself if she was not willing to inflict damage?

  But his thoughts were lost as she continued downward, hooking her fingers into the waistband of his trousers. He groaned, but remained steady, hoping she would have this part done quickly. She fumbled with the buttons of his waistband and he covered her hands with his to guide her through the task. One fumble, one misplaced touch, and he’d snap. He was already so hard that he could scarcely bear it.

  Once his trousers were unfastened, he pried off his boots, then let her have her way.

  She smiled and began to push the trousers down his hips, and when she tugged them lower he doubled his hands into fists at his sides. His self-control had never been so tested, so tenuous. And he was still not certain he’d pass this test, when all he wanted was to ravish her.

  She came up on her toes again to kiss him, and her aroused breasts scraped against his skin. She was trembling even more and he knew she’d be nearly ready for the next level. When she parted her lips for him, he took her tongue hungrily and pulled her so close that he could feel every inch of her burned into him. Every inch.

  He moaned and lifted her, laying her on the bed. Within seconds he had finished the job she’d begun and was beside her. The delicate intimacy of her bare silken skin against his was wildly sensual. She stroked his chest, his back, his sides, and lifted her knee to skim her heated inner thigh along his leg and hip. Her core was vulnerable to him in this position and it was all he could do to keep from claiming it now.

  He wove his fingers through her hair and held her head still so that he could kiss her. She parted her lips and sighed, whispering, “Such heaven…can it be real?”

  He kissed her eyes, her nose, her throat, her chin, and finally came back to her mouth. Against her lips, he said, “We are real, Dianthe, and we will make our own heaven.” And then he cherished her lips with a dozen soft kisses.

  For a moment, she gave over to him, allowing him to set the pace, deferring to his needs. He used the time to cool his burning hunger. She was closer than she knew to being ravished. He kissed her tenderly and moved lower to the irresistible lure of her breasts. He gave them exquisite attention, caught up in the taste and texture of her, and the wildness of her response. She whimpered, her hands clutching fistfuls of the velvet beneath her. She was incoherent, murmuring single words like please, now, heaven, dear God, and his favorite—Geoffrey—oh, Geoffrey.

  Soon she would be ready, nearly frantic to have him inside her, and he slipped his hand down to test her response. Her hips lifted and her knee crooked as she turned toward him. Lord, she was like a passionflower in full bloom—lush, damp, opening to him, glistening on his fingers, and soon, his tongue. Little sobs began to escape her and her head thrashed on the pillow as he pushed one finger, then two, into the entrance to her deepest being. He stretched her, readying her for him. She was so small, so snug, that he wondered if he could keep his promise not to hurt her.

  He found the barrier and tested its strength, and she pushed up against his hand. She was gasping now and clutching his shoulders. It wasn’t pain that drove her; it wasn’t fear. It was blind desperation. He’d need to ease her, take the edge off the driving need. He nibbled his way downward, on his way to her mons. He couldn’t wait to taste her, to feel her inner vibrations against his tongue.

  But suddenly she seized his hair and dragged him upward. “No,” she panted. “No. You won’t cheat me again tonight.”

  “That wasn’t my intention,” he said.

  And she pushed him over on his back. “You are taking charge again, turning me into your mindless slave. My turn, Geoffrey.”

  He was so taken by surprise that he could only grant her what she wanted. He lay back while she began a tender assault on his body. Her fingers raked over his chest and abdomen, leaving little trails of tingling nerves in their wake. His own immediacy had waned as he gave attention to her, but now it was back, aching, throbbing, demanding. She could not know what she was doing to him, how she was testing the limits of his endurance. He reached for her again, wanting to feel the length of her body pressed against his.

  She seized the initiative before doubts could set in. He made a sound like a strangled laugh. She had not shown much finesse. “I am flattered by your enthusiasm, my dear,” he said as he nuzzled her ear, “but as I have more experience, perhaps you will allow me—”

  She shook her head and pursed her lips against his ear. “Shh,” she said, “or all Miss Osgood’s expensive lessons will go to waste.”

  He groaned. He’d meant to shock her into quitting her charade, and now it had come back on him. “This wasn’t what I had in mind.”

  “Too late,” she murmured against the column of his throat.

  Her lavender silk garters, still fastened above her knees, slipped off easily and then she straddled him. She had them fastened about his wrists before he realized her intent. “No,” he groaned. “No, Dianthe.”

  “Do you trust me?” she asked, her lips moving against his ear.

  There was a long pause, then a faint reply. “Aye, I trust you.”

  She reached over him and tied the silk ribbons to the bedposts, fastening them with simple knots. She sensed his tenuous surrender in the relaxing of his muscles as he settled against the mattress. She was surprisingly aroused by the freedom to do as she pleased to this strong, solid body.

  She kissed her way down his throat to his chest, running her hands over his laddered flanks, amazed at the strength and muscles that had been hidden beneath his elegant clothing.

  She moved down to his diaphragm, her nipples abraded by the crisp matting of hair on his chest. The sensation was arousing. She lay atop him and she could feel the hard swell of his manhood against her belly. Her breathing quickened and she wondered if she should…if she dare…

  She trailed her hand downward, found that uniquely masculine appendage and closed her hand around it. Geoff gasped and twitched.

  “Easy,” he urged her.

  The smooth glide of the velvet skin over the thick stiffness of his erection intrigued her, and she slowly moved it up and back down, eliciting a deep groan and a shudder. She marveled at the power such a thing had over him, and tried it again.

  “Dianthe, love…be careful how you test me,” he moaned. But even as he said it, his hips jerked, pushing his shaft further into her hand.

  Her courage soared with the deep vibration of his voice, the heady mix of control and desire. He was so powerful, always in command, and yet she could make him quiver with need. That knowledge fascinated her. With each new and daring thing she’d done, Geoff had praised her, begged her for more, just as she’d begged him. Dare she do to him what he’d done to her?

  She moved lower, kissing the ridged muscles of his abdomen and trailing her tongue down a faint line of hair toward her destination, gripping his hip with one hand and his erection with the other.

  He convulsed as he realized what she was going to do. Did she instinctually know what would drive him insane? Such play was not new to him, by any means, but that Dianthe would attempt such a thing was completely beyond his wildest fantasy. He didn’t know whether to curse Miss Osgood or to praise her.

  The garters binding his wrists had never been tight, and he pulled his hands free, still gripping the ribbons so she wouldn’t know he’d done so. He’d hold on as long as he could, but the end was imminent.

  Her breathing was ragged and her touch was unsteady. Her damp inner heat brushed against his thigh. He ached to touch
her there, to bury himself deep inside her, hear her welcoming sighs, feel her contracting around him. Ah, but he had vowed there would be nothing forbidden between them. Nothing. How could he forbid her this?

  He clenched his jaw as she moved relentlessly lower. How could he both want and dread the same thing? The mere stirring of her breath against his flesh caused him excruciating agony, and he’d never known a passion so potent. At the merest touch of her lips, his control snapped as violently as if it had never been. He released the lavender ribbons and pulled her upward.

  “Geoffrey,” she whispered in a thick voice.

  He rolled with her until she was on her back and he was nestled between her thighs. Dianthe clung to him, wrapping her legs around his hips, knowing that, somehow, this was what she should do.

  He kissed her deeply, and with an urgency she hadn’t felt before. Her skin was on fire, her breathing now shallow and rapid as she gripped his arms to steady herself. He slipped his hand—his strong, talented hand—between them and entered her again, opening her, stretching her, making her ready.

  “Please,” she whimpered, rising to him, certain she would die if he didn’t do something quickly.

  With a deep groan, he cupped her bottom, easing her upward as he came down to meet her. When she felt him at her entrance, she had a fleeting moment of panic, but he moved to touch, to stroke, that small bud of flesh and nerves he had cherished with his tongue, and her doubts evaporated on a sigh.

  His thickness pushed into her, a slight burning, a little pinch, no more. Chill bumps raced along her skin and she bit her lip to hold back a sob of relief. He strained above her, shaking with control as he eased downward again. His face was a study in restraint. A fine sheen dampened his forehead and the dark hair around his face. He started to withdraw and she feared he was going to leave her.

  “No!” And she lifted with him, trying to keep that thickness within her.

  He grinned and dropped back to the mattress with her, kissing her and smoothing the hair back from her face with a tender touch. “Your turn to trust me,” he said, lacing his fingers through hers and holding them against the pillow.

  He began moving his hips again, rocking into her, demonstrating the rhythm of love. The friction was unbearable. The more he gave her, the more she craved. She moved faster, demanding, understanding now that the short separations were temporary and that he came back to her with added pleasure. They were rising inexorably to some unreachable summit, leaving her trembling and increasingly desperate.

  And then, just when she feared she could bear no more and would die of this strange wanting, she was washed in a shimmer of electricity, every nerve ending tingling and screaming with joy. Her own voice sounded distant as she spoke from her heart.

  “Geoffrey…oh, Geoffrey. Thank you.”

  He sank into her one last time and, with a sound that was half moan, half laugh, gathered her close. “My pleasure, Dianthe.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Geoff tied his cravat as he watched Dianthe sleep. The bedsheet was tangled around her, exposing a length of leg here, the curve of her back there, and the delicate flush of a cheek through the tousled blond hair. She sighed deeply and turned, reaching out to the space he had vacated a few minutes ago. Wild, sated, completely untamed. That was the new Dianthe. His love. His match.

  God, how he longed to be with her there, responding to that touch. He couldn’t get enough of her. Long after she’d fallen into an exhausted sleep, he’d lain awake, wanting her still, stroking her arm, the length of her spine, the soft curve of her hip. He’d watched her sleep, as fascinated as if she’d been dancing or fencing.

  And now, the longer he stood there, the more he was torn between rejoining her and his need to insure her safety. Now that he was involved with—in love with—Dianthe, she had become a potential target for el-Daibul. Geoff was too wise in the ways of gossip and subtleties to believe they could keep their affections secret for long. Even if his true feeling were never known, he had taken the public role of her lover. Thus, his need to find el-Daibul had gone from urgent to critical. If harm came to Dianthe because he had dared to love her, he would not be able to live with himself.

  He pulled a sheet of paper from the drawer of the small escritoire near the fireplace and dipped a pen in the open inkwell.

  Dianthe my dear,

  Thank you for a lovely evening….

  He crumpled the paper into a tight wad and threw it onto the hearth. Good God! That sounded as if they’d had a trivial encounter at the gaming tables. He could not dismiss her passion so easily. He tried again.

  My darling Dianthe,

  I wish I was waking with you, but business calls me forth. Pray, rest today and restore your energy. I shall return by evening and see you then. We have much to discuss and settle between us.

  Always, Geoff

  He folded the note and placed it on the bedside table so that she would see it the moment she woke. He needed to know her wishes before he tried to untangle their predicament with her cousin or the McHugh. Both of them were likely to kill him for what he’d done last night.

  Dianthe turned her face up to the sun. She hadn’t wanted to venture beyond his bedroom, but now she was glad she had. Still feeling luxurious and languid from Geoffrey’s touch, she’d decided that an outing would be just the thing to clear the cobwebs from her mind and renew her energies.

  But sitting on a bench on the north side of Leicester Square at quarter past one o’clock, she tried to still her unease. Miss Denton was fifteen minutes late. Dianthe opened her reticule for the third time to make certain the ticket voucher was there, and the slips of paper with her sister’s and Charity MacGregor’s addresses. She’d left nothing to chance—nothing but the fact that Miss Denton might not come. Or…or that she couldn’t come.

  That thought sent chills up her spine. What sort of monster was abroad that preyed on vulnerable women? Such a thing took a singular kind of villainy. Could it be as Geoffrey said?

  “Miss Lovejoy? Are you unwell?”

  She looked up to find Flora Denton standing in front of her, holding a small valise. “Oh, Miss Denton! Thank heavens you’ve come. I was worried that something might have happened to you.”

  Flora took the seat beside her on the bench. “No, but I nearly changed my mind. This life is all I’ve ever known. To change it all now…”

  “Your very life may depend upon it.” She fumbled through her reticule again, removing the voucher and addresses. With barely a hesitation, she added the last of her little hoard of cash and handed the lot to Flora.

  “I do not know how to repay you, Miss Lovejoy. You cannot know what this means to me.”

  Dianthe smiled through her tears. “There is enough to see you to Scotland and for a few days at an inn if you cannot reach the persons on the list immediately. Simply tell them that I sent you, and they will take you in.”

  Miss Denton looked through the documents and put the money in her reticule. She removed her glove and shook out two keys. “One is Nell’s and one is mine,” she told her, then handed her a torn scrap of paper with the address written on it. “I have left something for you, Miss Lovejoy. Something you may find useful. Please be very careful. I fear what might happen to you if you are found there.”

  “And I fear what might happen if you stay. I’ll walk with you to the coaching house and see you safely off.”

  “Please, Miss Lovejoy. That is not necessary. It is just a few streets away and it’s the middle of the day.”

  Dianthe glanced around. There was nothing unusual, nothing to cause alarm, and she realized Flora should be perfectly safe as long as she was out of town by nightfall. “Do you promise you will be on the very next northbound coach?”

  “Yes, of course. But before I go, I must give you a warning, as well.”

  “Me? Whatever for?”

  “You think you know everything, Miss Lovejoy, but you are dreadfully naive. Dabbling in the demimonde has exposed you to cer
tain…unsavory elements. While my income was dependent, I could not say anything, but now, well, now I must speak out. You must stay away from Mr. Munro, and also Senor Ramirez. They are very dangerous men. Stay close to Lord Morgan. He will keep you safe if anyone can.”

  Dianthe’s pulse pounded. Did Miss Denton know something about Munro? “What has Mr. Munro done? Why do you warn me against him?”

  “He has a sudden and violent temper. Some of the girls have borne marks after entertaining him, and I, as well. I believe he is threatening them, Miss Lovejoy. I know he threatened me.”

  The very things Munro had accused Geoffrey of! “What sort of threat can he make that would require them—and you—to remain silent?”

  Miss Denton looked into the distance, refusing to meet Dianthe’s eyes. “That we could end up like his nosy wife. That he would be forced to hurt both us and whomever we told. And that women who crossed him have been known to disappear.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. His nosy wife? Was this the key to discovering if Mr. Munro had killed Charlotte Morgan? “Did he say anything else about his wife?”

  “I have said too much already, but you should be warned. Stay as close by Lord Morgan’s side as possible.”

  “Miss Denton, do you think, given the nature of the warnings, that Mr. Munro or Senor Ramirez have anything to do with the disappearance and murder of our friends, or do you think Mr. Munro was merely using the circumstance to frighten you?”