Hot Silk

by Sharon Page

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Has it made you happy?” Grace repeated. “Has it made you happy to be so judgmental and condemning? Really, what has it gained for you?”

  “I have preserved the good name of my husband’s house.”

  “I wanted to love you and you have just told me not to waste my time, so I will not. But is the Earl of Warren really worth that?”

  “The mistake was your mother’s.”

  “Yes, but the punishment does not need to last a lifetime.”

  “It is too late,” Lady Warren spat out. “It is simply too late.”

  “Come in here, gel!”

  Hurrying down the corridor, Grace slowed at the sharp autocratic command snapped by a female voice. She jerked around, her heart lifting, hammering with tension. She would have to be proud, she would have to—

  She met Lady Horton’s blue eyes.

  “Oh.” It was not her grandmother. Her grandmother had not followed her to apologize.

  “And where is Mr. Sharpe?” Lady Horton asked. “Did he have to go out the window?”

  Grace gaped helplessly at her ladyship’s blue eyes and the wicked sparkle in them at the pleasure of scandalous gossip.

  “Of course, I know, gel.” Her ladyship motioned her to enter the bedchamber.

  “What do you mean?” Grace asked, hoping to appear innocent and confused.

  But her ladyship’s clucking tongue proved she had failed in her attempt.

  “You and Mr. Sharpe,” Lady Horton said. “I must say, he’s a delicious choice for an affair. Lawlessness brings out a man’s passions in bed.”

  “An affair! I’m a…a maiden. I—”

  “It was quite obvious from the way Mr. Sharpe looked at you that he had seen you without your clothes.”

  Grace flushed. Did everyone in the house know? Had she destroyed herself utterly?

  She stood as proudly as she could. “Do you plan to condemn me? I do not intend to endure another attack on my—”

  “No, my dear. I had a fondness for pirates myself,” Lady Horton answered crisply. “Now, what are your plans for Mr. Sharpe?”

  She didn’t have to feign bewilderment. “My plans?”

  “Lusty ladies do not often think of how an affair will end. Have you thought of that? What do you want from him?”

  She could not believe she was engaging in this conversation with a peeress who was a stranger to her. She knew Lady Horton was warning her. But she didn’t care. “I want nothing. There is no affair. He is a highwayman—”

  A smile curved her ladyship’s thin lips. “He is a man of grand passion. I wish I had been so fortunate as to marry such a man.”

  Grace frowned. “I do not expect marriage, if that is what you are asking me. I could never ask for it, I could never have it. I do not want it. At this moment, I no longer even care about scandal.”

  Merriment twinkled in Lady Horton’s eyes. “Miss Hamilton, I only wish to advise you not to set your expectations too low.”

  Grace found Devlin at the edge of the bluffs, staring pensively out at the crashing surf, a burning cigar clamped between his teeth.

  He turned before she thought she had made a sound. She felt the weight of his gaze as he approached.

  “God, you are beautiful.”

  Her throat tightened. His words sounded so honest she wanted to believe them. It was so very much what she had needed to hear.

  She needed him again. She needed him to make her forget her mistakes and her failings.

  “I want to go,” she said simply. As his cigar fell from his shocked mouth and tumbled over the cliff edge and into the sea, she felt a surge of satisfaction. She had stunned a highwayman. A pirate. Fear niggled—perhaps he was afraid she was asking for…for a future. She wasn’t. She didn’t have one. Live in the moment, he had said. Well, now she would.

  “Take me back to your world. I want to experience it all.”

  14

  Devlin fisted his hands and paced the tile floor of the foyer while Grace drew on her gloves, then paused by the mirror to adjust her bonnet. All the color had leached out of her complexion, her eyes were shadowed, and she stared at her reflection with a cool resoluteness.

  Though her meeting with her grandmother had destroyed her, Grace had begged him not to confront the countess. Gritting his teeth, he had agreed, but only because he didn’t want to cause Grace more pain.

  “I just want to go home with you,” Grace had implored.

  He’d curtly nodded his head. “Whatever you desire, sweeting,” he’d promised. But he knew he could not do that. It could not happen.

  That blasted witch, Lady Warren.

  Out in the courtyard, servants loaded her trunks and cases onto the cart that would transport them to the quay.

  Around the house, trees whipped in the wind. It would be a high sea, turbulent, and he’d advised Grace to wait.

  “You aren’t a good sailor, love,” he had warned gently.

  She had given him a rueful smile. “Very tactful, Devlin. You mean I’ll be sick.”

  “There’ll be high waves and a fractious wind. One moment you’ll be looking at the sky and the next we’ll be plunging down toward the black depths of the sea. We can wait to see if the weather changes tomorrow.”

  Her face had blanched at the thought of high waves. But even though she betrayed her fear by trembling, she had insisted, “No. I want to leave today. I can’t bear to spend another moment here. I don’t belong here. I don’t want to be here.”

  She walked ahead of him out of the door. The wind tore at her bonnet—it ripped some of the ribbons free and threw them into the air where they flashed pink in the gray sky.

  She stopped on the enormous front stoop and glanced behind her. “I promised myself I would not look back. But here I am, looking toward my grandmother’s room. She won’t be looking out to catch a last glimpse. She’ll be happy I’m gone.”

  Trees dipped in the wind, sweeping branches across the drive. Colorful petals flew up and swirled in exotic patterns.

  “Goodness, it is ferocious,” Grace declared, but she held on to her bonnet and hastened toward the waiting curricle that would take them down to the dock.

  Devlin knew he would not dissuade her. All he could do was lend his support. She clutched the side of the curricle, though, instead of his hand, as the carriage lurched down the gravel path to the shore. He slid his hand in hers—he’d taken off his glove and he slipped his fingers under the hem of hers and felt the frightened beat of her pulse.

  But nothing showed in her eyes except a look of utter loss.

  Grace clutched her bonnet tighter as the wind snapped at it. A fanciful ribbon flower broke free and flew away before he could catch it.

  The poor girl had dreamed of a loving reunion and he knew how strong those dreams were, those dreams that had been woven through childhood, cosseted and kept. Those fantasies endured even through the cold reality of adulthood. He’d spent his life yearning for acceptance—and, in a sense, he’d fulfilled his dream. He’d won admiration from his father, the Marquis of Rydermere. But hell, he’d drunk his father’s brandy, shaken his father’s hand, and understood that his dream had been much more precious than the reality could ever hope to be. His father’s shielded approval of his wild and daring life didn’t make him any less a bastard. Nor did it heal his broken heart over his long-dead mother. It did not make him a different man. He’d been forged by his circumstances. Had he achieved his childhood dreams when he had actually been a child, he would now be an entirely different man.

  Devlin did not know how to explain that to Grace, and he doubted she wanted to hear it. She’d had her most vital dream shattered.

  He wished he could fix that for her, change it, take it back.

  Hell, he was pragmatic enough to know that was impossible. But he felt as he had not felt for a long time, not since he’d gone running off to sea. He felt as though he should not just accept the way of the world. That he should
bloody well do something about it.

  The carriage halted. Seawater pitched high over the quay, sending a salt-filled spray over the boards with each crashing wave. The sky was a flat plane of slate gray.

  “You’ve nothing to fear, love,” he promised, but she fixed him with a grimace.

  “Other than being sick all over my shoes?”

  She was sick, several times, in a bucket in the tiny cabin given to her. He held her close, stroking her hair, holding it back as her stomach heaved. After each time, he gave her water to clean out her mouth and he wiped away the residue with a damp cloth.

  She sobbed and tried to fight his hold, humiliated. He was certain she wanted him to go away so he would not see her like this—sick and vulnerable.

  But this was the most important time for him to be by her side, so he would not go.

  They rounded a shoal, a dangerous outcropping of rock that acted as a breakwater—he knew it because the water calmed. The boat shuddered against the water as the anchor was dropped and he tenderly helped Grace to her feet. Her dress was not soiled, but he knew she felt terrible.

  So he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the deck. With his arms tight around her, he lowered her to the waiting dory. She all but flopped onto the seat.

  As soon as they reached the dock at the manor house, Devlin scooped Grace into his arms again and carried her to the house.

  “I’m not that bad,” she croaked. “I can walk.”

  But he shook his head. “Let me make you well again.”

  The servants of the house, accustomed to treating ill guests, jumped to attention at his command. A hot bath was drawn and clean clothes laid out from Grace’s trunk. While her belongings were loaded onto the carriage provided by her brother-in-law, she ate a meal and took light ale until color bloomed in her cheeks again.

  He spoke of nothing but inanities while he tended her. “More bread, but let your stomach regain its strength before you apply that much butter. Let me pour you more tea.” He fed her plain cake, trading smiles, pretending his heart was much lighter than it actually felt.

  For, once she was strong again and they were on their way, he was going to have to tell Grace what he planned to do with her.

  “Sweetheart, why do you want to run away back to an orgy?”

  Devlin heard the vulnerable softness in his question, and he sprawled back on the velvet carriage seat, determined to look rakish and in control. The fabric was smooth beneath his bare hands, but he knew it did not compare to the softness of Grace’s dewy skin.

  Grace glanced away from the window and ran her tongue slowly over her lips. His groin tightened but he knew the gesture was not done consciously. It was a display of her natural sensuality and not calculated, and it had the power to yank his breath from his chest.

  With Rogan St. Clair removed from his gang, he had no reason to worry about taking Grace back to his home—no one else would dare subvert his authority. No one else would dare suggest holding his woman for ransom.

  So why did he feel so damned ill at ease at the prospect? He was uneasy enough to have concocted another plan, one Grace would not like.

  “Why, Grace?” he repeated, his words intended to gently coax.

  She tipped up her chin, her defiance endearing. “I want to play in your orgy. I want to do everything that excites you.”

  He shrugged. “Being with you excites me. I need nothing more.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, as though protecting her heart. “I don’t believe that. Wouldn’t you like to see me doing all those lusty, erotic things?”

  “No.”

  Her brows shot up. “You wouldn’t? Why not?”

  “It’s my duty to protect you, sweeting.”

  “From what? I don’t belong in high society, after all.”

  “Your family believes you do, love.”

  “My sisters are happy because they’ve married men they love, who are titled men, it’s true, but it is love that makes my sisters happy. Not social standing. They have marriages and children, and I won’t have that. There’s nothing for you to protect me for.”

  Devlin scrubbed his bare hand over his roughened jaw. Hell, he needed to protect her for one reason.

  He couldn’t share her.

  “If I had any sense, Miss Grace Hamilton, I would take you home. And since I do have sense, that is where you are going. To your home, not mine.”

  Clear astonishment showed on her face. Then her confusion was revealed by a fetching frown that made him question his resolve. Could he send her back?

  She shook her head, sending her disordered hair shimmering around her. “I won’t go, Devlin Sharpe. You cannot force me.”

  “You would be surprised.”

  Her gaze desperately searched his face; he saw the visible effort she displayed trying to understand him. Her cheeks flushed, the heightened pink transforming her pale complexion.

  “What if I were to tell you this?” she purred softly.

  Based on just that one phrase, that knowing seductive tone, his groin tightened immediately, his entire body tensed and primed for a sexual bout. The sparkle of erotic anticipation in her vivid green eyes almost stopped his heart.

  “I rather enjoyed it when you tied me up before. I think I liked it when you introduced me to games where I submit to your dominance. You were the one to capture me, to insist that you wanted an affair. I want one now. Tie me up, Devlin, and show me your desires once more.”

  Christ. He’d expected tears. Not this siren luring him to his doom.

  “The only reason I’d tie you up now, Grace,” he growled, “would be to deposit you on the doorstep of your brother-in-law, the Earl of Trent.” His heart ached at the thought, but he didn’t have a choice. “You want to come back with me because you are hurting, Grace. I can’t let you make choices because you are in pain.”

  “Are you sure?” Her voice was a throaty whisper that sent so much blood surging through his cock he almost leapt off the seat in the desperate need to adjust his trousers.

  “Would you not want to tie me up again?” she continued, sultry and alluring. “Would you not want me to take your hard cock into my mouth?”

  He imagined it instantly. Her puckered lips coming toward his cock, her eyes alight with naughty lust. Her tongue teasing the weeping tip of his prick…

  “I would like so much to suck you until you climax in my mouth, Devlin. I want to—”

  “Grace, goddamn it, stop!”

  “He thinks she’s a lady but she’s really just a whore. She’s no different than me. Than any of us.”

  Lucy parted her legs wider as Rogan St. Clair licked his way up her inner thighs. Her heels caught in the soft, worn sheets and she dug her fingernails into the mattress for purchase as Devlin’s banished lieutenant shoved her legs so far apart that her muscles screamed in protest.

  His hair brushed against her skin and she shut her eyes. His thick dark hair was shorter than Devlin’s, which she knew would feel silkier. Rogan’s hair was wiry and a lush blue-black. His tongue was wet and warm, the way any man’s would be, and she shivered in pleasure as he first drew his tongue up the bare skin of her right inner thigh, then the left. Back and forth he licked, groaning as he tasted her skin.

  “It’s because of her fancy clothes and her fancy accent—”

  “Shut up, sweetheart,” Rogan commanded and she opened her eyes. He was poised over her wet, aching pussy with his tongue sticking out.

  And his big, thick cock sticking out.

  But it wasn’t Devlin’s cock.

  Rogan’s was heavy; it hung downward, tipped with dark purple, and swung between his legs, aggressive and threatening. It had a fat mushroom-shaped head.

  Devlin’s stood tall, curved toward his navel, and had a fine head that begged to be kissed.

  Lucy sighed. She was excited. She wanted to fuck so much. She needed to.

  She closed her eyes again.

  “Thinking of Captain Sharpe, are you?
” Rogan growled.

  She shook her head, certain he’d be angry if she admitted it.

  He bent and blew a hot breath over her naked cunny. With her lashes brushing her cheeks, she moaned and trembled.

  “I’m going to eat your hot, creamy pussy, sweetheart. Who are you going to be thinking about? Devlin? Or me?”

  Lucy wriggled her naked bottom against the rough and simple bed—the second best one to be had at The Swan, the nearest inn to Devlin’s manor house. Dreaming of Devlin had left her wet and she knew Rogan could smell her. Her thighs were slick with her wetness. She ached to be filled and her sensuous motions were intended to be an invitation. “You,” she whispered.

  “In love with Devlin, aren’t you, lass?”

  His breath whooshed out after his words, teasing her wet nether lips. “No,” she lied.

  “I’m going to fuck you hard, lass. I’m going to cram your cunt and your arse full with my hard cock and I’m going to make you scream. And if you’re a good girl, I’ll get Devlin for you.”

  His fingers stroked the valley between her buttocks—flattened by the mattress, they were pressed tight together. The blunt ends of his fingers sent shivers through her as they worked between her cheeks.

  “What do you mean ‘Get Devlin for me’?”

  “If you help me, love.”

  He teased the tight entrance to her rump—a place she had never liked to be touched until Devlin had taught her to relax for the caresses, to enjoy the pleasure. She’d been so afraid of remembered pain, of the brutality she knew in a man’s touch. Since she’d been eleven years old, men had used her. Men who liked to hurt her. Who wanted a slim, young, tight girl so they could take her callously and roughly and make her cry in pain and shriek in panic—

  Devlin had been so good to her. She had loved him desperately. But now he wanted the blond-haired tart because she was a lady and Lucy was not. Devlin’s woman was like those whoring peeresses who took Dev into their beds. But Dev was blinded by a posh accent and the haughty manners those ladies were taught.

  Lucy knew the truth. She knew that the ladies of the quality weren’t really any better than dockyard whores. In fact, many were far worse—they were more grasping and cruel and, oddly, more fearful. But Devlin wanted a lady. He had everything he could ever want except a titled lady in love with him.