Lady Rosabella's Ruse

by Ann Lethbridge

  He dropped her hand and placed his hands in the dip of her waist. The nightgown disguised nothing of her shape, the ribcage above, the gentle curve of hip below, the waist he could fully encircle with his hands, should he try.

  This time, when he took her lips, he lingered, tasting her, renewing his acquaintance with the feel of her velvety mouth, the taste of her tongue, the way her eyes drifted closed and her dark lashes formed mysterious crescents against the warm tone of her skin. Her body melded to his, not yielding, not bending, but expressing its own hunger.

  Delicious. Sweeter than honey, more potent than brandy. Intoxicating. He devoured her mouth, explored every inch of her back with eager hands. The span of her shoulders, while not broad, had unexpected strength, backbone, determination; her back narrowed at her waist, then flared to the softest sweetest buttocks it had ever been his pleasure to stroke and caress. They filled his palms like delectable fruit. She arched her back, pressing into his hips, unconsciously, innocently, arousing him to greater heights of lust.

  Only with effort did he break free. She stared up at him, her lips red from his kiss, her cheeks scraped by his scruff of beard. He winced and rubbed his jaw. He should have shaved.

  She followed the movement. ‘I like it,’ she whispered. ‘It makes you look like a pirate.’

  A thief like her.

  But the treasure he planned to steal was not wrought of gold or precious jewels. In a woman it was quicksilver and hard to hold. The truth.

  He smiled and held out a hand. Unhesitating, she took it. Bold. Brave. No outward sign of trepidation, but it was there, in the too-fast inhale and exhale of breath, in the tremble of her hand in his. She sensed danger. But she hadn’t yet learned where it lay.

  He led her to his bed.

  He grinned. ‘Shall I lift you up?’

  With one hand, she swept the hair back from her breasts and over her shoulders. ‘I can manage a few steps.’ She hopped up and leaned back against the pile of pillows and gave him a sultry look from beneath half-lowered lids.

  More bravado. A strangely soft feeling in his chest caught him off guard. He almost opened his mouth to set her free. What, had he turned into some chivalrous knight? Hardly.

  No woman walked away from his web of seduction until he was ready.

  ‘Comfortable?’ he asked, slipping out of his waistcoat and pulling his shirt free of his pantaloons.

  ‘Very,’ she said in that low voice that drove him wild. About to pull his shirt over his head, he glanced at her and caught the swipe of her tongue over her lips.

  When she saw him looking, she smiled.

  He ripped the shirt off and discarded shoes and stockings.

  Putting one knee up on the bed, he stole a brief kiss. ‘Wicked minx.’

  She laughed. ‘No more wicked than you.’

  He grinned ruefully. ‘I know.’ He pulled at the white satin bow nestled in the valley between her breasts. The ribbon slithered undone. Gently he pushed aside the froth of lace on one side, revealing the full rise of an impertinent breast, the furled nipple clearly visible through the lace. The crescent of dark areola peeked at him over the skimming fabric beckoning, his tongue. He obliged with a swift lick.

  She gasped and shuddered.

  His shaft jerked in reply, demanding its place in the proceedings. Not yet, lad. There was much to accomplish before he took his own pleasure.

  Although words were the last thing forming on his tongue when such delights nestled close by.

  Her fingers raked through his hair, encouraging him to greater efforts. He pulled the bodice down, exposing one lovely globe of soft tender flesh. He stroked the peak with his tongue, over and around, tasting and savouring the softness and the contrasting hard little nub at the peak.

  She squirmed and gave a moan of pleasure.

  He smiled at that sound and stretched alongside her on the bed, taking in the softness in her expression, the haze of heat in her gaze, the desire.

  He rolled the budding nipple between thumb and forefinger and watched her melt. ‘Where did you go, that night, when you left me sleeping beside the hearth?’

  Eyes blank, she stared at him. He swept his tongue across the rise of her breast, then blew gently.

  She shivered and moaned.

  ‘Where, Rose? Where did you go, all wrapped up in your cloak?’

  ‘To return the cushions and then to the bedroom,’ she said, her breath coming hard when he turned his attention to the other breast. ‘I looked in the desk.’

  Truth.

  He licked and nipped at each hardened peak in turn, caressing them, worshipping them with hands and mouth until she cried out each time he lifted his head to move from one to the other.

  He raised himself up on one elbow, ignoring her cry of protest, and dropped a kiss on the point of her stubborn chin. ‘And did you find anything?’

  ‘I… No,’ she whispered her voice low and hoarse. ‘I found nothing. Oh, please, don’t stop.’

  Her eyes were guileless. The heartbreak buried in her voice beneath the urgency of the desires he’d roused rang true.

  A sense of relief flooded through him because she’d been telling the truth all along. About that, he forced himself to remember. Only about that. ‘And your real name?’

  ‘Rosabella.’

  Truth. She spoke it too naturally for it to be anything else. Rosabella. He liked the way it sounded. He rewarded her by returning his mouth to her breasts and pressing one leg between her open thighs. She welcomed his intrusion with a lift of her hips, seeking the pleasure she’d learned at his hands.

  He suckled.

  She cried out. Her back arched. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging, as she uttered guttural cries of encouragement. In her need, her body sought to join with his, her hips rubbing against his erection inside his falls. If he had been hard before, he was more rigid than iron now.

  The desire to be inside her, to fill her, to prove she was his, was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. It shredded his reason. He hung on by a thread. In that moment he knew no matter what happened, no matter who she was, or what she wanted, he would want her for a very long time.

  And after that, she’d have marriage as her reward.

  He lifted his head and gazed into her face, at the almond shape of her eyes, the taut skin over finely cast cheek-bones. ‘You really are beautiful.’

  He broke from the mesmerising depths of her lovely eyes and kissed each nipple in turn; a light brush of his lips and each peak instantly puckered. He trailed kisses down between their shallow valley, through the filmy fabric, down her breastbone to the dark shadow of her navel, swirling his tongue while her hands wandered across his back as if they weren’t quite sure what to do. But when he kissed lower down, nuzzling into her curls through the fine lawn of the gown, she gasped and tried to push him away.

  ‘You can’t,’ she said breathless.

  ‘Can’t I not?’ he said, trying not to smile at her innocent shock.

  He worked his way down the bed until he was sitting on his heels between her feet. He lifted her right leg, bending it at the knee, and wrapped his hand around her heel. She tensed and he smiled at her. She smiled back and relaxed.

  Hers were not small feet, but slender and elegant, high arched and beautifully formed. ‘The winged Goddess of Victory never had such beautiful feet,’ he said, raising her foot to his mouth, kissing the arch, massaging the ball. She spread her toes like a cat stretching its claws.

  ‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘That feels good.’

  He leaned forwards and opened the drawer beside the bed. Retrieved the scented oil he kept there for just such occasions. He put a small drop in his hand and rubbed his palms together to warm the oil and release its perfume.

  She watched him wide-eyed.

  ‘I promise you will like it.’

  She smiled hesitantly.

  First, he worked the pad of his thumb along the arch, in slow firm strokes, and she relaxed into the pi
llows. The weight of her leg rested in his palm where he cupped her heel. He slid his palm up her smooth rounded calf and raised her leg, the glimpse of shadow between her thighs begging for his attention. He ignored its call and massaged her delicious sole and the plump little heel with both thumbs.

  She sighed with pleasure.

  Gently he lowered her leg to the sheets, angling it wide, and picked up her other foot. No resistance this time—indeed, she was eager to place her foot in his hands. He poured more scented oil in his palm and massaged it in. He frowned at the red mark on the smallest toe. ‘What happened here?’

  ‘The shoes. The ones I wear on stage, they pinch.’

  He frowned, but said nothing. She would not be wearing those shoes again. He kissed the tiny blemish and she chuckled softly. ‘Kissing it won’t make it go away.’

  ‘But it can make things feel better,’ he said, flashing her a grin, then returned that foot to the bed, her legs spread wide as he smoothed his hands up her shins, pushing the hem of her nightdress higher to expose her knees.

  Lovely long limbs, skin kissed golden by a sun it had never seen, yet somehow remembered. Reverently he kissed the rounded bone and grazed his fingertips along the delicate flesh of the small indent behind. A little gasp rewarded his efforts and encouraged him on. Both hands slid up the inside of her parted thighs, the skin velvety soft beneath his palm, the muscle tender, yet lithe. A feast for the senses. He couldn’t recall another woman whose feet and legs were so utterly beautiful.

  He cast her a smile designed to seduce, and she smiled back with all the mystery of a woman whose passion lay just below the surface, waiting for one man to release its power. What he had experienced so far was only a fraction of what burned inside her. He would have the key to the rest.

  He explored her thighs, the places that made her legs fall further apart, the spots that tickled and made her flesh jump and brought forth her low throaty chuckle.

  Lust rode him hard. The urge to sink into her depths, to drive home to the hilt and make her cry out, had him grinding his teeth as he fought for control.

  He eased her nightdress up to her waist and exposed the delights of her feminine flesh nestled within the dark bush of midnight-black curls slick with the evidence of her desire. He parted the folds of tender flesh and found the centre of her pleasure, the secret source of bliss.

  She drew in a sharp hiss of breath as he caressed that tender nub. The small sound played havoc with his iron control, sucking the air from his chest and firing his belly as if he was the forge and she the air fanning his flames.

  ‘And your last name?’ he asked softly.

  Chapter Twelve

  On the brink of flying apart, at the edge of shattering, he was asking her something. For a moment, Rosa couldn’t make sense of his words.

  He leaned forwards and licked and then sucked the place where his fingers were moments ago. She almost died from the spiralling pleasure. She wanted to die, to soar free of her body. But somehow he kept her tethered to him, enslaved to his tongue and the rough edge of his beard against her thighs.

  A soft warm breath drifted across her heated flesh, bringing no relief, but a promise. ‘Tell me your family name, Rosabella.’

  ‘Pelham,’ she gasped, willing to do anything to be sure he wouldn’t stop now. Not when the end was so near.

  He circled his tongue and she wanted to scream as he nudged her so close to the edge, then stopped.

  ‘The truth, Rosabella.’

  ‘Cavendish of Pelham,’ she surrendered. ‘I swear.’

  He stilled, raised his head. Something hot flared in his eyes. Fury. ‘Earl Pelham is your father.’ He said it flatly as if the answer was moot and she had admitted to some dreadful crime.

  She moaned and grabbed at his shoulders, trying to draw him against her fevered body. ‘He is my grandfather.’

  His lips drew back in a grimace. ‘God help me. That I did not expect.’

  The bitterness in his voice chilled her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It means the matter is closed, child or not. The shackles are fastened.’

  Before she could question him further, he had renewed his efforts with his tongue and her mind emptied of all but the need for fulfilment. He sucked at the hot swollen bud between her thighs.

  She fell apart. Wave after wave of delicious pleasure washed through her.

  Her reward for the truth.

  Yet why did she have the sense it was also a punishment? Perhaps it was the hard set to his jaw as he drew her nightdress over her head and looked down at her nakedness. Or the way he roughly settled in the cradle of her hips and brought his hard flesh into her body, filling her deliciously. He drove deeper, and the ache he’d assuaged a few moments before, began again. If anything it was more intense. Slowly he withdrew, and she moaned at the thought he would leave her, fastening her legs around his hips, twining her arms around his neck to hold him close. He made a sound in his throat like a groan of defeat and thrust into her, deeper, harder, over and over. It was like riding the back of the wind in a storm, caught up in a vortex and circling higher and higher. All she could do was hang on tight and let whatever drove him carry her along.

  He knew her name, had stripped her bare of her secrets, and now she was completely in his power.

  She surrendered to his strength.

  Lost herself in the pleasure he visited upon her.

  Triumph filled his eyes along with regret.

  A nerve jangled. She wasn’t a leaf to be picked up by a gale and tossed hither and yon where it willed. Passive was not in her nature. Nor was surrender.

  He must suffer the consequences of the fire he had lit. Arms wound around his neck, she pulled herself up against a broad chest damp with sweat. The heat of him against her breasts spurred her on. She swirled her tongue in his ear, and his grunt of pleasure tugged at her core, even as she tilted her hips to meet his next driving thrust. Waves of pleasure once more caught her up. She nipped at his earlobe and, recalling the pleasure of his mouth on her skin, licked the salty skin, his corded neck and the soft part of his throat. She no longer received his driving force deep within her centre; she set the pace with the lift of her hips.

  The rough sound of his breath against her shoulder increased in tempo. He sounded in pain. She ran one hand down his back, found the rise of his buttocks and the hard bone of his hip. As he withdrew to pound into her again, she slipped her hand between their bodies and found the base of his shaft and cupped the softness beneath, caressing there as he had played with her breasts.

  ‘Holy hell,’ he said in her ear. ‘You’ll make me…’ He caught her hand and pulled it free, returning to stroke and press her sensitive flesh at their joining.

  Her body flew apart in pleasure. Her mind darkened, leaving only intense flashes of white heat in her veins.

  Breathing hard, Garth pulled away, groaning as if it pained him to leave her, his body convulsing and heavy on her body, his forehead pressed against her shoulder. He rolled off to one side and a moment later she felt him rubbing her at her stomach with the sheet. She glanced down. ‘What is it?’

  He shook his head wearily. ‘It is nothing. A bit of a mess.’ He looked…stunned.

  He rolled on to his back and pulled her against his shoulder. ‘Rest. And don’t think for a moment about running off.’

  The man really did like to issue orders. ‘Am I your prisoner, then?’

  He gave a soft rueful laugh. ‘If you are, then I am also yours.’

  An odd thing to say. She was too tired to question him further, but as her breathing slowed and her skin cooled, she shivered.

  He reached down and pulled up the quilt, covering them both.

  ‘Do you want me to ask Pelham for the miniature?’

  Oh, dear, now he finally believed her. Guilt racked her. She shook her head. ‘It isn’t there. It was a fool’s errand.’

  By never saying the words out loud to another person, she’d somehow clung to the hope t
hat Grandfather was wrong. That Father hadn’t thought his daughters unimportant.

  The hot burn of tears welled up and, furious, she brushed them away. She would not believe it. Could not. Something had prevented him from keeping his promise. Something beyond his control.

  It was just too cruel otherwise.

  ‘Why so many damned lies?’ Garth murmured on a long release of breath.

  She frowned. ‘I wasn’t lying.’ Not all the time.

  ‘You lied about who you were. What you were.’

  ‘If you had let me alone, everything would have been fine.’

  A scornful growl issued from his throat. ‘Would it? Or was it all part of a very clever plot?’

  ‘If it was a plot, it did not involve you.’

  ‘Really. Did you not pretend to be a widow? Did you not lure me to a deserted house and get yourself ruined? The consequences are obvious.’

  ‘Lure you?’ She almost choked on her anger. ‘You followed me. Next I suppose you will be blaming me for the rainstorm and the kisses. You are the seducer. And besides, it isn’t possible to ruin an opera singer.’

  ‘But you are not an opera singer. You are the granddaughter of Earl Pelham, the owner of the house you supposedly broke into.’

  ‘We are estranged. He refused me permission to search.’

  He let go a huff of breath. ‘You can be sure he won’t be estranged when he learns I have you in my bed. He’ll insist that we wed.’

  Why did he sound so smug? It wasn’t as if he wanted this marriage.

  ‘Believe me, Grandfather won’t care one iota what happens to me.’

  ‘The ton will care. It was bad enough I seduced an innocent, but an innocent noblewoman… I’m sorry, there is no other choice. Not to mention you might be carrying my child.’ He said the last with an edge of bitterness.

  A child. The idea of her own children had always been something she had treasured. He made it sound like a terrible burden. Something to be grimly shouldered. She shivered more violently.

  He pulled the quilt higher up her shoulders. ‘Shall I ring for a fire?’