by Kelly Bowen
“Dawes—”
“What about all your friends? Surely you would enjoy a visit?” He wasn’t going to let this go. He wasn’t going to let her go easily.
“There is no one in London I wish to visit,” she said shortly.
“I don’t believe that. You had many friends—”
“They were never my friends,” Rose said. “They were people who knew Anthony—who knew you—and simply became my acquaintances out of temporary circumstance.”
Eli tried to think of an argument and failed. Because, he realized, those individuals who had flocked to populate his past social orbit had been exactly as Rose had described them. Acquaintances of temporary circumstance. Men and women focused entirely on indulging their own wants and needs and using those around them to do it.
“They were never my friends,” she repeated, almost too quietly for him to hear.
Eli slid his fingers along her jaw and around the back of her neck. There was something she wasn’t saying. “Rose—”
“I’ll be back in London at the end of summer,” she told him, stepping back slightly. His hand fell from her skin. “Fall always seems to bring a rash of commissions, usually for children’s portraits.” She took another step back. “You’ll be exceedingly busy acclimatizing yourself as the new Earl of Rivers. Perhaps, once you’ve resettled yourself and when we both have a free afternoon, you could join me for a cup of tea at the school.”
“A cup of tea? Now who sounds like a ninety-year-old nun?” he growled. Rose was suddenly slipping away from him again, and he had no idea why. Or how to stop it.
He heard her exhale. “You’ll be very busy, Lord Rivers.”
“Stop calling me Lord Rivers. And stop retreating.” He closed the distance between them again.
“I’m not retreating.”
“You are. And you know how I know that? Because you’ve never allowed me the luxury of doing the same. Every minute since I stepped onto these damn shores, you’ve challenged me. Confronted me when it mattered. Made me look inward even when I haven’t liked what I’ve seen. And after everything, somehow, you still managed to believe the best of me.”
Rose turned her head away.
“You have been the truest friend I’ve ever had, Rose Hayward. And I’m not letting you go. Not now, not tomorrow, not a year from now. I am not going to be reduced to an acquaintance who pops by for a cup of tea.”
“Then what?” she said. “What are you going to be?”
“You tell me.” He caught her chin in his hands and turned her face back toward his. “What do you want from me?”
The darkness hid her expression, but he could feel her rapid, shallow breaths against the skin of his wrist.
“Perhaps I’ll tell you what I want, then.” He moved his fingers from her chin, along the column of her neck and the hollow of her throat, across her chest, and down to the subtle rise at the top of her bodice. “I want you. Here. In London. Or wherever we might go. All of the days, Rose, and all of the nights.” His fingers slipped farther, brushing against the peaks of her small breasts and down along her rib cage, coming to rest against the small of her back. She was so tiny, so exquisite.
“I want your mind, and I want your body. I want to be your friend and your lover.” He took another half step closer and gathered her against him. He bent his head, bringing his free hand up to push the windblown tresses away from her face and neck. “I want to seduce you. And then, after I’ve heard my name torn from your lips, after I’ve watched you come apart, I want you to seduce me.” His fingers slid into the hair at the back of her head, his lips a breath away from hers. But still he didn’t kiss her.
He was dizzy with want, his head spinning, his body hard and heavy, his cock throbbing, every fiber in his body shaking with desire. “You’re beautiful and strong and honest, and I want all of that. All of you.”
“Eli.” It was the first time he had ever heard her use his name, and it sliced through his tenuous control, leaving him teetering on the very edge of restraint. “There will be other women you—”
“There are no other women, Rose. There never have been.”
She made a muffled noise. “I thought we had agreed to be honest with each other. I was there, remember? You had scores of women.”
“Because I couldn’t have you. And I didn’t know what else to do.”
“What?” It was barely a whisper.
“I’ve wanted you from the very first moment I met you. But Anthony Gibson found you first. He never deserved you. And I never fought for you then. I won’t make the same mistake again.” His hand tightened on her back. “Tell me what you want, Rose.”
She didn’t answer, but her hands came up, her palms pressed flat against his chest as they smoothed over the linen of his shirt. They dipped down, over his lower ribs and around to his back, stopping at the waistband of his breeches. And then, suddenly, she pulled the linen free, pushing it up over his back toward his shoulders. Eli ducked his head, releasing her for a second as she pulled his shirt from his body and let it fall.
He stood before her, the night air caressing his skin. She reached out and ran a delicate finger over his chest, tracing the muscle beneath his nipple and letting it travel over the ridges of his abdomen. Very slowly she stepped around him, her fingers never leaving his skin but sliding up to explore the valley of his spine. At his neck her hands slipped apart, skimming over the width of his shoulders and then down to the sides of his waist. She leaned into him, and he felt her lips graze the center of his back. Her mouth moved down lower, following the same path her fingers had. He shuddered and closed his eyes, so aroused that it hurt.
“That,” she whispered against his back. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”
Her hands were moving up again, her palms sliding around the top of his waistband, coming to rest just below his navel. He trapped them beneath his own hands, held them against his skin. He could still feel her breath against his back, felt her lean into him, her lips trailing fire across his rigid muscles.
His head fell back, and he closed his eyes. Rose’s hands slid from beneath his, over the sides of his hips, the curve of his ass, and then stroked the backs of his thighs. He wondered if she could feel him shaking. It had been so very long since a woman had touched him like this. And not just touched him but explored him reverently, as though trying to memorize each part.
Her hands moved again, back to his hips, only this time they delved forward over the fall of his breeches, stroking the rigid length of him through the fabric. He groaned, using every ounce of willpower not to thrust into the pressure of her palms like a green boy. He felt her exhale, felt her muscles quiver where she was pressed up against him, and that finally snapped him out of his inertia. He spun, catching her face with his hands, and kissed her the way he had always wanted to.
There was nothing soft or careful about how he claimed her mouth, just a blind, aching need to have her. And somewhere, over the roaring in his ears, he heard her whimper softly as she opened beneath him, her tongue sliding against his. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and he lowered his, embracing her and hauling her up against him. She melted against him as he took everything she gave, kissing her with an abandon and a surrender that left him dizzy.
His hands slid down to her backside, and he gathered her against him, settling her against his throbbing erection, the friction igniting a conflagration of pleasure. His hips rocked, and he groaned again, aching with want. He wanted more, wanted everything, wanted her. She made a sound deep in her throat, her fingers curling into the nape of his neck. Her mouth slipped from his, and she licked and teased her way down the side of his neck to the hollow of his throat and then across his bare chest. One of her hands slid down, her fingers brushing across his nipple. And then she bent her head and her mouth replaced her touch, her tongue swirling and sending bolts of raw desire racing through his body.
He sucked in a breath, his control fraying at an alarming rate. Two could pla
y at this game, he thought hazily, sliding his hands up to cover the swell of her breasts. She exhaled, raising her head, arching into his touch, and he set his mouth at the center of her chest. His fingers slipped inside her stays and coaxed the bindings and the front of her dress down, exposing her breasts. He covered each easily with a hand, and his thumbs flicked over her tightened nipples. She made a sound of raw pleasure, and her hips jerked against his body.
She was quivering on the edge just as he was, he knew. He could feel it in the tautness of her limbs, the quickness of her breath, and the tightness of her grasp. With one hand he dragged her skirts up, sliding his hand over the smooth expanse of her thigh. He stroked the softness of her skin, brushing the backs of his fingers against her sex.
Rose whimpered, and he caught her mouth in his, capturing the sound. He turned his wrist and slid a finger through her folds.
“Eli,” she gasped, her hips tipping instantly, giving him more access. God, she was wet. And responsive. And utterly, completely perfect. He found the apex of her sex, and her head dropped to rest on his chest.
He slid a finger deep into her tight, slick heat.
“Oh,” she breathed, her fingers digging into his skin. He stroked her, listening to the tiny sounds she was making. He bent his head and caught her lips again, kissing her deeply, pushing her ever closer to the edge. His finger slid deep once again, and just like that, her entire body tensed and strained as her climax tore through her.
He held on, waiting until she was limp against him before withdrawing his hand and letting her skirts drop. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly, wanting to remember the perfection of this moment.
“And I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he whispered.
She stirred, pressing a kiss to the left side of his neck, the thickened scar tissue making it difficult to feel the sensation. Out of habit he almost flinched and turned before he recovered. But not fast enough.
“Don’t you dare, Dawes,” Rose murmured. Her hand came back up to caress the ruined side of his face. “Don’t you dare hide any part of you from me.”
He buried his face in her hair, holding her. Belonging completely to her. He took a deep breath, filling himself with the scent that was uniquely Rose—the exotic mixing with the tang of the sea. Around them only the sounds of the surf intruded.
“Eli,” she started, but he lifted his head and pressed his finger to her lips.
“Shhh,” he whispered. Because there was something else drifting on the night air now besides the sounds of the surf. The sound of a voice. A man’s voice, perhaps, carried across the water or perhaps bouncing off the cliffs behind them, making it difficult for Eli to determine where it was coming from. He caught Rose around the waist and dragged her slightly behind him, away from the water’s edge.
She made a squeak of surprise. “Eli—”
He slid his fingers along the edge of her bodice and set it to rights. He listened hard, but there was nothing now other than the steady sound of the surf. But every instinct he possessed was warning him that they were no longer alone on this beach.
“What is it?” she whispered near his ear.
“Men.”
“Soldiers?”
“I don’t know.” He peered out at the water, but between the lack of moonlight and the shadows of the cove, it was almost impossible to see anything. Then, farther down the beach, a break in the line of pale surf was followed by a dull thud. Another dull thud and then splashes, and the sound of a small craft being dragged up the stony beach.
Silence descended again, and then a lantern flared to life, giving Eli a sudden glimpse of a knot of men, one of whom was instantly familiar.
“Harland?” Rose murmured.
The light suddenly swung in their direction before being snuffed and plunging the beach back into darkness. “Who’s there?” someone called, and there were the sounds of booted feet advancing toward them.
Eli glanced behind him, but unless he and Rose were to scale the cliffs, there was no exit on this end of the beach. The approaching shadows would stumble across Eli and Rose eventually. He snatched his shirt from the beach and yanked it over his head, pushing Rose farther behind him. As the figures drew closer, he stepped forward.
“Strathmore,” Eli said conversationally but clearly. “I didn’t take you for a late-night swimmer.”
The men stopped abruptly. “Rivers.” There was the sound of low conversation, and then a single shadow separated to approach while the others faded back down the beach.
“How’s the water?” Eli asked.
“Cold.” Harland Hayward stopped just in front of Eli, his silhouette dark against the silver surf. Behind him Eli could hear the sounds of the boat being dragged back into the water, followed by the splash of an oar.
“I can see you hiding, Rose, even in this dismal light,” the baron said flatly. “Your hair gives you away every time.”
“I’m not hiding,” Rose grumbled.
“Then what, exactly, are you doing alone with a man who has more notches on his bedpost than the sea has fish?” The baron’s tone was deceptively pleasant.
“Your sister was sketching when I inadvertently disturbed her,” Eli said, just as pleasantly, refusing to engage. “And she was gracious enough to allow me to keep her company. What’s your excuse, Lord Strathmore?”
“Scurvy,” the baron replied.
“I beg your pardon?”
Strathmore made a vague, half-visible gesture in the direction of the sea. “Half the crew of that ship.”
“Unfortunate.”
“Nothing that a crate of oranges won’t fix.” He paused. “But I’m not here with you to talk citrus. I’m here to see my sister home.”
Eli heard Rose make a rude noise. “I don’t need a nursemaid, Harland,” she said.
“Agreed, if only because Rivers would seduce her too.”
“No one was seducing anyone,” Rose snapped at her brother, and Eli wondered if she wasn’t right. Because Rose Hayward had seduced him long before he had ever stepped foot on this beach. And what he had felt for her, with her, here tonight, went far beyond mere seduction.
“Let’s go, Rose.” The baron was starting to lose his civility. “Now.”
“That’s a little autocratic, even for you, don’t you think, Harland?” She didn’t move.
“While I don’t much care about the Earl of Girls here, I would prefer if you weren’t the next body dumped on my table with a bullet hole. Charlie Soames isn’t the first person to be shot by a trigger-happy soldier looking to bag a smuggler. In the dark, in this cove, they will shoot first and ask questions later.” Strathmore suddenly sounded weary.
Eli felt his body tense. As much as he hated to admit it, Strathmore was right. Eli found Rose’s hand in the darkness. “Go with him, Rose,” he whispered.
“Not you too,” she muttered.
“Your brother makes a valid point,” he forced himself to say, his fingers grazing the inside of her wrist. “But we will finish this…conversation later.”
Chapter 14
I understand you’re going to London.” The voice came out of the darkness as Eli entered his room.
Eli froze, though he didn’t jump. Perhaps he was getting used to Harland Hayward’s preferred manner of conversation by ambush.
Eli wandered to the small washstand and lit a lantern, taking his time. “Is there a reason you are skulking about in my room in the dark, Strathmore?” Eli asked evenly without turning around. “Run out of beaches?”
“I’m not skulking. I’m sitting. On an exceedingly uncomfortable chair, in fact. What the hell took you so long to get back? What could you have possibly been doing since I left you at the cove?”
Fantasizing about all the different ways I’d like to bed your sister. Imagining all the different ways I’d like her to bed me.
“Nothing that’s any business of yours,” Eli replied, lifting the lantern in the direction of the baron. Strathmore wa
s sitting in the corner of the room, his legs crossed and his long fingers steepled. Only now, visible in the light that had been absent on the beach, Eli could see Strathmore’s exhaustion. Dark smudges hovered beneath his eyes, and his face seemed drawn. His hair had been messily tied back, and what looked like blood was smeared along the front of his coat.
“Rose tells me that she intends to accompany you to London in a few days.” There was no inflection other than one indicating a mild curiosity. Eli wasn’t fooled for a second.
“Your sister, as I understand,” Eli started, “has paintings that she wishes to deliver to clients currently in London. It only makes sense that we travel together in the interest of expediency and safety.”
“Safety?” Strathmore repeated. “And who, exactly, will protect my sister from you?”
Eli set the lantern back down on the washstand and sat down on the edge of his bed. He would not rise to the baron’s bait. “I can assure you, Lord Strathmore, I have only your sister’s best interests at heart. She needs no protection from me.”
The baron made a rude noise. “Anthony Gibson once claimed to have Rose’s best interests at heart. You might understand why I find it difficult to believe that his closest comrade would speak any more truthfully.” It was blunt and brutal.
Eli chose his words carefully. “Anthony was not the man I believed him to be. His behavior and his betrayal of Rose were despicable. He didn’t deserve her.”
“No, he didn’t. And he is damn lucky the French got to him before I did,” the baron said coldly. “Had I been in London when his treachery became the public fodder that the ton gorged itself upon at Rose’s expense, I would have seen to the appropriate resolution. But regrettably, I was already abroad with my knives and saws, tasked with trying to put His Majesty’s troops back together again. Not taking them apart piece by loathsome piece.”
Eli watched the baron and wondered how many had made the mistake of underestimating Harland Hayward. “I understand,” he said quietly.