by London Casey
She wanted that. How desperately she wanted that! It seemed too much to hope for.
He brought his mouth down on hers, open, hot and hungry. Devouring her. She moaned and thought no more of William. Or of fear, or anything else.
Only Ruel.
Anne rolled onto her stomach, too exhausted to untangle her legs from the sweat-dampened sheets—exhausted but not sated. She’d spent the past half an hour giving herself three climaxes.
“There will be no part of you held back from me.”
Just recalling the soft, absolutely commanding way he’d said that was enough to send the blood returning to her still throbbing flesh. Her lust-befuddled mind began to see the reason in Ruel’s logic.
Maybe he was correct. She needed to take some risks in life to give her a sense of control again. Measured risks—ones of her own choosing. But only under the most limited and controlled situations.
One month was not so long. She would be back in time to receive Mama’s letter and, hopefully, she would be recovered enough from her fears to make the carriage ride to meet Dorothea’s ship.
“I will fulfil you, Nan and then his ghost—and all the doubt and guilt associated with it—will be put to rest for you.”
She could still feel the heat of that last kiss, before he had released her wrists and brought her back here to her bed. She moaned with the memory of it and slid her hand back down between her thighs.
“Well, it sounds mad, my lady, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.” Nellie gave the brush a fierce tug. Anne’s scalp burned and she winced. “Taking a lover—and such a scandalous one! Do you know what a libertine Ruel is? The kitchen maids have been agog with gossip—why, they will speak of nothing else! And going off alone with him! Have you taken leave of your senses?”
Anne’s stomach sank and, for a moment, she felt like a disobedient child of ten years old. However, she was twenty-two years old, a widow. Capable of making her own decisions.
“Do you want to be like Her Grace?”
Nellie’s carefully aimed words struck Anne in the heart. Mama and all her lovers. Mama who had tapped her foot impatiently, forcing Anne into a first Season when she was only sixteen and far too shy. Mama who had run away with a lover right after Anne’s wedding and stopped sending letters for three long years. Mama who was sending Anne a surprise package all the way from India.
But she wasn’t Mama. She would hurt no one with her affaire with Ruel—with the possible exception of herself. And Nellie had no place lecturing her like this. She forced herself to stare icily into the mirror and meet her abigail’s eyes.
“I think you forget yourself, Nellie. I don’t need your permission.”
Nellie stared back with a hurt expression. “I understand you less and less with each passing day, Lady Cranfield.”
The last two words were said with stiff formality. For the first time, her servant’s impertinence made her blood seethe.
“It’s not your place to understand me, just to serve me,” Anne said. “You will obey me in this and help me with my plans and tell no one.”
Nellie’s eyes went wide and she paled a bit. “Certainly, my lady. Always. You know I am loyal—unquestionably so.”
“Yes, I know,” Anne replied more softly, feeling heartsore over the exchange. Nellie had been the only person she trusted, the only person she relied on. Now that had changed and she had no one to confide in. Life suddenly seemed to be moving too fast for her to cope with. She glanced at the silver locket lying on the blue velvet in her jewel box. She closed the box’s lid and turned the little key.
Anne waited as Ruel approached from the other side of the ballroom. The music from the quartet, the talking and laugher, all around faded away. Only he remained.
Save for his brilliant white cravat and waistcoat, he was clad all in black, even his trousers. Light from the many chandeliers shimmered on the sun-bleached streaks in his hair, making it appear as pale as moonlight. Her heart leapt into a rapid beat and her lower belly melted into liquid desire.
His bright blue gaze moved slowly over her in the sapphire silk gown. “Lady Cranfield, you have left off your necklace.”
“Yes, my lord.” She swept her gloved hand up to touch the stark emptiness at her collarbone. Why she hadn’t replaced it with another necklace, she couldn’t say.
A slight smile touched his lips. “I approve.”
Under his steady yet enigmatic gaze, she grew shy, tongue-tied.
He offered his arm. “Shall we dance?”
The absolute last thing she wanted was to end her mourning here, tonight, under Francesca and her friends’ nosy eyes. Running back upstairs and huddling under her coverlet seemed the most promising option.
But then she fancied his look turned slightly stern. She caught her breath and remembered his parting words to her last night in her chamber.
“You will not use your mourning as an excuse to hide yourself away any longer.”
“You say that as if it were a dictate,” she had said.
“It is. Make no mistake—if you come to the ball without the locket and you dance with me, you are sealing our agreement. You are giving me your solemn word that you will obey me in all things, over the following four weeks, to the best of your ability.”
Her solemn word. A measured risk to trust him.
“Lady Cranfield?”
She offered him a trembling smile and placed her gloved hand on his arm. His muscles were tight beneath the superfine cloth. His body heat radiated to hers. He took her hand. A brief, hard squeeze. It reminded her of how he had held her wrists, holding her firm, resisting her struggles.
A wave of heat flashed over her. Electrifying her senses. Tightening her nipples.
“Good girl,” he said, just audible for her.
Warmth curled through her tummy like pure, liquid honey. She glanced up, her smile steady now.
He grinned and winked at her. The shared secret of their intended affaire thrummed between them. Another wave of excitement tingled through her, stronger this time, filling her body with energy and strength to face the crowd of curious eyes. She allowed him to lead her across the floor to the line of dancers. As they approached, all eyes seemed to narrow in on her. The gentlemen ogled her person, their expressions speculative, appreciative. The ladies weighed her with their stares as if competitively sizing up her worth.
She looked across to Ruel. His eyes were distant, his expression slightly bored. A knot formed in her stomach and it was hard to remember the feeling of their connection just a moment before. The dance began. They did not speak when the steps brought them together. At the end, he kissed her hand and winked at her again.
Then he left her.
The temperature in the room seemed to suddenly drop and her energy drained.
“Other than the one dance, I shan’t even talk to you. We shall leave our attachment a secret, for your sake. However, you will stay at least until after the midnight supper and you must dance with whoever asks.”
His words from the night before came back to her. He was so demanding of her, and was it fair? Demanding that she leave off William’s locket. Demanding that she put off her mourning. Demanding that she dance with any gentleman who asked her. Ruel had allowed her no quarter, anywhere.
He said she needed these things in her life—measured risks. Something to shore up her bravery to face life’s randomness. But maybe his way was too extreme. Then again, her way had yielded failure thus far.
She hated this sort of situation. It wasn’t like playing chess, where one could predict the effect of the next move. There were too many unknown variables. She was giving Ruel too much say over what she did, too much power. But what had she to lose here, except social face? She wouldn’t be dancing just because Ruel had said she must. It would still be her decision.
It had nothing to do with craving the warm sensation that curled through her insides every time he said “good girl” in his velvet-smooth voice.
“L
ady Cranfield?”
Anne startled from her thoughts.
Lord Parwick smiled at her and offered his arm. “Would you care to dance?”
His eyes were so open and friendly. Deciding to trust in the moment, she made the choice to accept and let him lead her away. Set after set, gentlemen asked her to dance. It was very different from her Seasons. The men looked at her as if she were interesting, they spoke and jested and flirted with her as if they wanted her to think they were interesting.
Meanwhile, Jon danced, talking and laughing with other ladies.
At the midnight supper, Jon escorted Cherry. From the corner of her eye, Anne watched as he spent the entire meal actively charming the young widow.
A cold sickness settled in Anne’s stomach. A sickness tinged in green—jealousy. She didn’t want to admit it, even to herself. Indignation stiffened her spine. She turned away from her plate of sumptuous food and studied Mr Kean.
Candlelight made his dark red hair brighter, almost like William’s flaming locks. However, Kean’s jaw was longer, more square, his nose bigger. Though he was their closest neighbour, Kean belonged to Richard’s circle of friends, so William had stubbornly snubbed him. Richard and William had been cousins and lifelong, bitter rivals.
Kean turned and returned her gaze with green eyes that were kind, tolerant yet somehow remote at the same time. As if he were a superior being roughing it amidst the peasants, instead of being the only untitled gentleman invited to spend these two weeks at Whitecross Hall.
Yet he had real breeding. He didn’t lower his gaze to her low-cut bodice, as every other gentleman had tonight, as if they were all sizing her up for an affaire. However, he had been most insistent on escorting her in to supper.
“We served together,” he said without preamble, apparently assuming she was privy to his thoughts. It seemed to be his habit.
“Pardon me, Mr Kean?”
“Ruel and I. We served together in the dragoons.” He tilted his wineglass to his lips and took a sip. “Well, more precisely, I served under him as a lieutenant.”
“And were you a true and faithful servant?” Anne asked, aping Francesca and Lady Scott’s flirtatious tones.
A grin transformed his handsomeness into sheer masculine magnificence. “I daresay I still am, Lady Cranfield.” Kean lowered his voice. “He asked me to partner you for supper.”
Heat suffused her face. She bent her head down and to the side, trying to conceal it. Sweat soaked her gloves and her palms grew itchy. “Did he indeed?”
“Indeed. And how could I refuse to escort such a lovely and enchanting lady?”
She glanced up through her lashes.
Kean was staring at her so intensely that she immediately dropped her gaze back to her plate.
“I think he wanted me to chase away all your admirers. Little did he realise, I am one of them.”
At his warm, intimate tone, she twisted her hands in her lap. So this was flirting? Good God, it was like an ordeal. She wished she could simply run and hide.
“Fortunately for him, I regard him as a brother. I won’t step out of line.”
Jon’s laugh seemed to rise above the other voices. He certainly seemed to be enjoying the widow’s silly banter. A jarring pang stabbed her heart. She made herself look up and give Kean a smile. Dazzling, she hoped. “Should I be relieved or disappointed about that?”
Kean’s pupils widened and he let his sensual lips part slightly. Then he laughed, deeply and loudly enough for the sound to carry over the other conversations. “Lady Cranfield, what a surprise you are.”
She forced a merry-sounding laugh and reached for her claret glass. Ruel stared at her. The moment their eyes met, he tapped his glass, then briefly held up two fingers.
Her heart sped up. But she’d only had a couple of glasses. He had no call to limit how much she drank. She tore her gaze away from his, lifted her glass and downed half of its contents.
The wine didn’t taste nearly as sweet as it should have. His eyes still burned into her—she knew it. Her stomach gave a little anxious lurch. To soothe herself, she quaffed the remainder of her wine. But soothe herself why? She glanced up at Ruel, at his tightly held jaw and his disapproving expression. She nearly dropped her glass as her stomach sank with shame.
But why? Just because she’d made that ridiculous agreement for the four weeks with him—to be his little wench—it should not affect the way she felt inside about herself.
“What’s wrong, my lady?” Kean asked.
She turned back to him. “I feel just a bit overheated. Maybe I’ve had too much wine.”
“The meal will soon be over—please allow me to escort you outside.”
Anne listened with half her attention to Kean relating some tale about his days in the dragoons. The cool night breeze did very little to ease her overheated nerves. Her stomach remained heavy—foreboding rode her hard.
For what must have been the hundredth time, she glanced at the French doors leading back into the ballroom.
Lamplight shone in glowing orange tones upon Ruel’s pale-blond hair. His expression, customarily fierce, betrayed nothing of his thoughts as he exited the ballroom to come onto the balcony.
She caught her breath and her body came to attention, as if someone had pulled her strings.
Kean bid her farewell and left her alone with Ruel.
She glanced up at him. His gaze, so intently focused on her, gave nothing away. He must be angry. He would berate her. Of course he would. She’d always detested being berated over anything. Not that it had been a common occurrence in her life. Her parents had left her to be raised by servants, who dared not push Saxby’s daughter too far, and William had lived apart from her, in Mayfair. Other than Nellie, no one had ever cared much what she did, unless it interfered with some momentary whim of theirs.
This was very different.
He took her arm, gently yet firmly.
She watched lamplight play over his strong cheekbones. Dry mouthed, she licked her lips. She should think up a good apology. However, she wasn’t good at that sort of thing. She simply avoided others as much as possible and thus avoided offending them. Why had she drunk the wine after he had signalled to her to stop? Yes… It galled her to admit it but, yes, she’d been jealous of the pretty widow.
The shameful word echoed in her mind, her heart beating harder as if punctuating each repeat.
Jealous, jealous, jealous.
Just like a pathetic, silly chit. She deserved every single word he would hurl at her. She braced herself.
“In an hour,” he said in a calm tone, “I am coming to your chamber. Be ready for me.”
Chapter Eight
An hour later, Anne opened the door to her chamber.
Jon was standing there, his eyes reflecting the flames in her hearth and glittering with such intense lust—she’d never seen anything like it in a man’s eyes.
Could he hear her heart beating? Surely so. He must be able to.
He grabbed her by the arms so suddenly that she gasped. He spun her swiftly. She sucked in her breath. He kicked the door shut, then he pressed her to it. He brought his mouth down on hers. He kissed her. Bruising. Demanding. Taking what he wanted as if he were ravenous for her.
By the time he raised his head, she was gasping for breath. Stunned. Bemused. He rested his hand on her collarbone. “You’re mine now, Nan.”
His tone was even more demanding than his kiss had been, yet his expression was calm. Controlled. “What did I say I would require from you?”
Her stomach felt as if it had gone lighter than air, followed by a burst of heat and almost pleasurable anticipation.
“I asked you a question, Anne.”
She rocked on her heels. “Well…”
“Well, what?”
“Well, this obedience business is what I wanted to negotiate with you.”
“Nan, it’s non-negotiable. You made a bargain with me. One month of your total submission to my will in ex
change for my help.”
She could say nothing to that.
He touched the belt of her wrapper, running his fingers over the velvet with sensual leisure; she ached to feel them upon herself. “This shade of red becomes you.”
He slowly pulled the knot loose, then pushed the garment off her shoulders. It fell at her feet. Her thin muslin nightdress offered little protection as his gaze roamed over her body—her nipples and internal muscles tightened under his intense regard. He placed his hands on her shoulders and pressed gently.
“On your knees, Nan.”
His voice was implacable. She wanted to deny him but her knees went all rubbery, making it easier to do as he asked than to argue. She dropped to her knees on the plush carpet and found herself staring at the large bulge in his trousers.
Being limited on how much claret she could drink was ludicrous and she intended to tell him that. “My lord—”
He interrupted her. “When we are alone, I am Jon. In the years since my grandfather died, I have been ‘my lorded’ unto sickness.”
“Jon…”
He touched her head and caressed her hair. “Don’t speak now, just listen.”
She gaped at him. Don’t speak? Did he think she was going to play the child for him? She looked up at him and opened her mouth.
His jaw tensed almost imperceptibly but a touch of approbation entered his eyes and he grasped her hair in his hand and tightened it.
She closed her mouth as a thrill chased through her insides straight through to her sex. A frisson of irritation followed. Her faithless body seemed to have a mind of its own where he was concerned.
“No doubt you think me unfair, demanding that you limit your consumption of claret. Nevertheless, to be brave in the way you need to be, you must learn to face your own feelings, not hide from them in drink. You are possessed of a self-destructive sort of wilfulness that I find unattractive.”
Why was she playing along with this nonsense?
He traced a fingertip between her eyes. “Don’t think so hard, just feel.”
She hadn’t realised she’d been frowning. With effort, she relaxed her face.