A Beginner's Guide to Rakes

by Suzanne Enoch

  At number seventeen the door opened.

  Oliver stood there, gazing at her. He’d shed his dark jacket and turned up the sleeves of his white lawn shirt. In his waistcoat, his boots and trousers still in place, he looked relaxed and … formidable all at the same time. The effect was rather breathtaking and didn’t at all help the jangling of her nerves. “Are you going to ask me in?” she queried, using every ounce of will to keep her voice steady.

  He stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come in.”

  Squaring her shoulders, she strolled into his front room. “When did you begin answering your own door?”

  “When I told my servants to make themselves scarce until or unless I should call for them.” The door closed with a solid thud behind her, the sound resonating down her spine.

  She half-expected to be pinned against the wall and mauled, but instead he moved past her toward the back rooms. “Do you want some wine?” he asked over his shoulder. “Or something stronger?”

  If she could become inebriated enough, perhaps she wouldn’t even remember the next twenty-four hours. But that would make her a coward—and he would know it. “No, thank you. I am rather tired, though, so I would prefer if you would just get this over with.”

  “Yes, I know you would,” he agreed. “This way.”

  The one good thing about her apprehension was that it kept her exhaustion at bay. And without them both keeping her in a tense standoff between panic and sleep, she doubted she would be able to move. “You might have waited for a decent hour to begin this; I doubt I’ll be able to remain awake, whatever your plans.”

  “Mm-hm.” He pushed open the bedchamber door to reveal a large brass bathtub filled with water. A mist of steam hung just above the surface, which had been liberally sprinkled with deep red rose petals.

  “You mean to drown me, then,” she commented, ignoring the abrupt satisfaction curling through her at the thought of a long, hot bath.

  “Not at the moment. Get in. I’ll be back.” With that he left the room, shutting the door behind him.

  As Diane looked from the candles on the small table to the bath and the door, she narrowed her eyes. The Oliver Warren from Vienna had been … fiery, drawing her into bed on their very first meeting. For that fortnight they’d barely been clothed—and even more rarely apart. The Lord Haybury of London had likewise been aggressive and arrogant, pushing at her with every opportunity. This didn’t fit with either version of that man.

  She stepped out of her shoes. “Well, you can figure this out standing here,” she muttered at herself, “or sitting in the bathtub.”

  The water looked so inviting. Experimentally she dipped her fingers in, swirling the petals about. Delicious and almost too warm. He’d kept the staff busy hauling buckets. A shame to let all that effort go to waste.

  Slowly she reached around her back and unfastened the trio of black buttons there. Then she shrugged out of the gown, letting it pool around her bare feet. Her shift followed. Then, with another glance at the closed door, she stepped into the brass tub and sank into hot, fragrant bliss.

  She couldn’t help the pleased groan that escaped through her lips as she sank down to rest the back of her neck against the edge of the tub. This was so much nicer than tepid water in a washbasin. If not for the man undoubtedly lurking just on the far side of that door, she would have been tempted to drift off to sleep.

  The door opened again. Oliver walked into the room, a platter of biscuits and strawberries and two glasses of white wine in his hands. “Comfortable?” he asked, shutting the door with his foot.

  “Surprisingly so,” she returned. “I said I didn’t want a drink.”

  “I already had it poured. Leave it if you don’t want it.” Setting the tray down on the floor, he dragged over a chair and stepstool beside the tub, transferred the tray to the stool, and sat in the chair.

  “So this is how you mean to spend your time with me? I’ll admit to being pleasantly surprised, but the clock continues to tick.”

  Oliver bit into one of the biscuits, chewed, and swallowed. “You didn’t used to be such a stone-hearted chit.”

  “Ah. Well, I find that being twice abandoned—thrice, if we count my parents—has left me unwilling to consider anyone’s well-being but my own.”

  He reached over to run his forefinger slowly down her bare shoulder. “Did I break your heart?” he murmured.

  That wine was beginning to look better and better. “Was that your aim?” she countered. Never would she answer that question. He wanted to know too badly.

  “You have to answer my questions for the next twenty-four hours.”

  Diane sank lower into the water. She closed her eyes, because that would perturb him. “It’s twenty-three hours and thirty minutes now,” she corrected. “And you have my body to use as you will; not my mind.”

  A moment later she felt his hands on her hair. She nearly flailed upright, concerned that he might attempt to push her head beneath the water after all. Instead, though, he began gently to pull the pins and combs from her hair until it hung loose and disheveled down the back of the bathtub.

  The warm water and the tickle along her scalp felt quite … delicious. Keeping her eyes closed, Diane forced her mind to work again. He’d wanted her two years ago. He’d had her, and then he’d fled. Now he wanted her again. Why? He didn’t wish anyone else to know, so this was about him rather than being some statement to the males—or females—of Mayfair.

  Abruptly it occurred to her, and she opened her eyes again. “You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?”

  Oliver dipped his finger into the water beside her hip and stirred lazily. “If I were afraid of you,” he said slowly, his gaze trailing down the length of her and back again, “why would I have you here?”

  “To prove to yourself that you aren’t afraid of me.”

  His mouth curved upward. “That’s so delightfully naïve of you. Adorable.”

  She cupped one hand and hurled water at his face. “I am not naïve,” she snapped, sitting upright. “Nor am I adorable.”

  Water dripped from his hair and chin, but he didn’t move. “So you have no trouble with the idea of selling yourself to me for five thousand quid, but you won’t tolerate being called naïve or adorable? That seems somewhat unbalanced.”

  “I loaned myself to you. For one day.” She leaned her chin on her arm, trying to gather her temper back in. He’d angered her on purpose; it seemed only fair that she attempt to return the favor. “My theory is that you found yourself falling for me two years ago, and, being the self-interested bastard you are, the idea of love frightened you—to the point that you fled the Continent. And now that I’m here, you feel the need to prove to yourself that I no longer affect you.”

  His finger wandered up her arm in slow swirls. “That’s a fascinating theory. Have you ever considered that I left Vienna because my uncle sent for me, and that you’re here in my bedchamber because you came to me for help? I think perhaps it’s you who need to prove that I no longer affect you.” He dipped his hand to caress her left breast, leaning down to kiss her at the same time.

  Lightning flared through her. As soon as his soft, warm mouth left hers, she pulled in a hard breath. “It seems to me that if we’re each convinced the other only wants to prove disinterest, perhaps we should simply call the night over with. It would seem to be a very large mistake.”

  He pinched her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “I am inclined to keep you here,” he mused, tangling the fingers of his other hand into her hair and pulling her head back for another deep, openmouthed kiss.

  “Well, just so you know, I have nothing to prove to myself about you,” Diane panted as his mouth trailed along her jaw. She clenched her fingers into the rim of the bathtub. “You’re pleasant enough in bed, but you can’t be trusted or relied upon.”

  “Because I left?” he asked, his very capable mouth nibbling at her ear.

  “Because you seduced me a week after I p
ut Frederick into the ground.”

  “Mm. I thought you seduced me. Or at the least I would call it a mutual attraction.”

  She could concede that he had a point, or at least that the humming blood racing just beneath her skin was making her feel considerably more agreeable. And thinking, keeping her wits about her … Even when she knew he would take every advantage possible she couldn’t seem to gather her thoughts together.

  Oliver straightened again, his damp hands running up his chest to unbutton his waistcoat. He pulled it off and just as swiftly yanked his shirt over his head and cast it aside. Against the tan of his skin, the small white bandage high on his left arm was even more obvious. She’d done that to him. And it wasn’t satisfaction she felt as she realized that. “Does it hurt?” she asked, gesturing.

  “I’ve had worse.” He rolled his shoulder to demonstrate. “Do you wish to come out, or shall I join you?”

  “You’re giving me a choice? Or have you forgotten what to do next? I thought this was your venture.” Beneath the water she shifted her legs; this was a very large bathtub, and both of them would fit quite easily. But somehow it seemed even more intimate than a tumble in his bed.

  “So it is.” One by one he removed his boots and dropped them beside the chair. He reached down and handed her a small vial. “Rose oil. Make yourself useful while I finish here, will you?”

  “Make myself useful? Whatever happened to the idea of romance?” she returned, taking the vial and pouring several generous drops into the warm water. Immediately the faint rose scent around her deepened, sweet and spicy all at the same time. Unless she was mistaken, this was some very expensive oil.

  “You keep insulting me. I’ve decided to attempt a more direct approach.” With that he stood up, unbuttoned his trousers, and shoved them down his thighs.

  “Well, I do remember that.” Diane spoke as coolly as she could, despite her abruptly dry mouth. The sight of his impressive arousal reminded her of several things, including how very good he was in bed. However that fortnight had ended, the fourteen days it encapsulated had been … exceptional.

  “And clearly it remembers you, darling.” He stepped out of his trousers and with a graceful shift of his weight climbed into the bathtub to sit opposite her.

  The water rose to her armpits as he sank down, their legs tangling into one another. Oliver reached over for one of the glasses of wine and offered it to her. Deciding she wasn’t accomplishing anything by abstaining, she took it from him and drank a generous swallow. It didn’t help.

  “What now?” she asked, setting the glass aside again.

  He ran his palms up from her ankles to her knees. “Surely you haven’t forgotten. How long has it been since you’ve had a lover?”

  “The last one I had rather ruined my taste for them, thank you very much.”

  She’d meant it as an insult, but he smiled—that aggravating, charming, sensual smile that still had the power to affect her. “No one since me, Diane? I’m flattered.”

  “I doubt you can make the same claim.”

  His smile slipped for just a moment. Regret? Just as swiftly as that thought crossed her mind, she rejected it again. More than likely it was the realization that he’d lost the advantage for a moment.

  “Suffice it to say that I’ve never loaned any of them five thousand pounds in exchange for a bath.”

  “The bath was your idea. I’d much rather be asleep at the moment.”

  He tightened his grip on her knees, tugging her closer. “Allow me to attempt to change your mind,” he murmured, leaning forward to kiss her once more. Oliver nibbled at her lower lip, then backed away an inch or so. “You may as well enjoy yourself, Diane,” he continued in the same tone. “Because while you may claim to detest me, you also want me.”

  It took a moment for her breath to return. “Don’t be so certain of that.”

  “I am.”

  This time he didn’t give her a chance to respond, instead drawing her up over his thighs as he kissed and nipped at her mouth. Good heavens, the man knew how to kiss. Almost unaware of the motion, she slipped an arm around his shoulder, holding herself against him. Heat flooded through her, alive and shivery.

  When he dipped his head to pull one of her breasts into his mouth, she threw her head back and groaned. Logic, plotting, strategy, all fell away. As he’d said, with twenty-four hours in his intimate company she might as well enjoy herself. He was, after all, very good at this.

  Oliver trailed his palms up her thighs, then slowly slid one finger inside her. Diane bucked, arching her back as he continued his ministrations, moving his hand in time with the sucking motion of his mouth on her breasts. Her breath escaping her in gasps, she tangled her hands into his mahogany-colored hair.

  When he straightened again to take her mouth, she pushed against his chest. “Enough of the bathtub,” she managed.

  “I agree.”

  He slipped his arms beneath her shoulders and knees, then stood. The fragrance of roses followed them as he stepped out of the water and carried her over to his bed. Her body abruptly felt chilled everywhere he wasn’t pressed against her, but she noticed the cool air only peripherally; inside, she burned.

  He’d covered the bed with additional blankets, evidently anticipating that they would both be wet when they arrived there. Oliver settled her into the nest, tied the ribbon of the neat French condom around the base of his penis, then climbed up her body, kissing her thighs, her belly, and her breasts, and then taking her mouth in another deep kiss.

  “Say you want me,” he breathed, reaching between them to rub his thumb against her left nipple.

  With his weight settled on her hips, his arousal pressed against her thighs, remaining objective was becoming supremely difficult. He made her want to move, to take him inside her, to groan like a moonstruck girl. But he wasn’t allowed to know that. “You want me,” she responded, running her own palms down his muscular arse and up again along his spine. The play of muscles beneath his skin was intoxicating, heady, and arousing, and she blinked in an attempt to clear her mind.

  “So that’s how it’s going to be, is it?”

  “Yes,” she rasped as he took a breast into his mouth again. “Don’t tell me you’re surprised.”

  “Everything about you surprises me.”

  That seemed like an uncharacteristically straightforward compliment. Perhaps his head was as preoccupied with sensation as hers was. Because whatever her head thought of him, her body was very, very pleased. As Oliver parted her legs and settled her ankles around his hips, she forgot everything but the exquisite sensation of his hard cock sliding inside her. Oh, God.

  He entered her again and again, his weight pinning her to the damp blankets. Diane couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but clench her fingertips into his back and groan in time with his penetrations. Every muscle tightened and then released as she contracted around him.

  “I knew you wanted me,” he murmured, his gaze intent on her face.

  Anything she could conjure at the moment would have sounded idiotic, so she settled for biting her lip and trying not to make the mewling sounds attempting to burst from her throat. Abruptly he rolled them so that he lay on his back and she sat straddling his hips, her hands splayed on his hard chest.

  If she’d had any self-control at all she would have remained still; after all, this agreement was all his idea. But the sensation of him filling her took precedence over everything else, and she began to move, stroking up and down the length of him. This time he moaned, reaching up to fondle and knead at her breasts, pulling her forward for another hard, breathless kiss.

  He thrust up into her faster and faster and then moaned as he convulsed against her, holding her close onto him as he came. More than anything she wanted to collapse on his chest, relax her tired, aroused muscles. But that would mean surrender—and she was not about to surrender. So instead she looked down at him and tried to capture enough breath to speak. “What now?” she asked.
“You still have twenty-two hours remaining.”

  “Damned chit,” he muttered, lifting her off him. “Lie down.”

  She started to lie back, resisting the urge to cover herself or attempt something equally girlish. She wasn’t a girl. “Very original.”

  “On your stomach.”

  Diane frowned. “You are not g—”

  “And shut up.” He pushed her with his fingers until she lay on her stomach, her arms crossed under her head.

  A moment later she felt him wrapping a towel around her hair and then tugging it down. He repeated the action, rubbing the wet strands between the folds of the towel. “You’re drying my hair?”

  “You’ll ruin my bed otherwise. Go to sleep.”

  “So you’re finished with me?”

  “I’m tired. We can begin battling again in the morning.”

  She considered that for a moment, letting the feeling of him toying with her hair seep into her. Nothing had changed. They were still adversaries. It was only that she felt very relaxed at the moment. And very sleepy. “Agreed.”

  Chapter Eleven

  It hadn’t precisely gone according to plan.

  Oliver sat back against the headboard of his large bed and gazed at the dishevelment of blankets and sheets beside him. Barely visible but for one arm and a tangle of long, curling black hair slept the greatest conundrum of his life.

  He hadn’t meant to touch her until morning. A comfortable, confidence-lulling bath, a warm night in his bed while he slept elsewhere, followed by a decadent breakfast and then hours of even more decadent sex. And then he’d seen her sitting naked in the warm water, and he’d forgotten everything he’d planned.

  People in general, and his peers in particular, thought him a hedonistic libertine. They thought he set his eyes on something and reacted to it as his gut—or slightly lower—wished. They were wrong, of course; he rarely acted without first considering where all the threads would lead. Of course, his only caveat of the past two years had been that the feminine distractions led him away from memories of Vienna.