Her stomach sank. Why was Beauworth writing to Sissy? What mischief was he up to now? I will find the truth without your help. Was he trying to involve Sissy in his quest?
Feeling guilty, she took the letter and made her way to her chamber. Seated at her dressing table, she turned the paper over and over. It was addressed to Cecilia. She should not open it. But William trusted her to keep Sissy safe. If it was harmless, she would explain her motives. Sissy would be angry, but she would have to understand Eleanor meant it for the best.
Hand shaking, she cracked the seal. Bold words slashed across the page.
Meet me tonight after Midnight
At the corner of the Square. We will finish
Our wager, on my Honour.
Do not Fail me.
B.
That was all. No words of love, just a command. He must be very sure of himself. A surge of anger made her hot, followed swiftly by a cold feeling around her heart. Did he plan to seduce Sissy into helping him? To ruin her sister for his own selfish purposes?
She stared at the letter. It was lucky that the footman had handed it to her instead of the butler, or she might never have discovered the plot. A careless mistake for a man like Garrick. She gazed down the street after the footman. A very careless mistake.
———
From inside his coach, Garrick watched the cloaked and hooded female figure pick her way along the footpath. The watch called midnight. Right on time. A streetlight on the corner revealed little but her height as she paused to glance around. He didn’t have to see her face to recognise Ellie. He breathed a sigh of relief. After his escapade on the balcony had failed to flush her from cover, this was all he could think of to force her hand.
Lord knew what he’d have done if Lady Sissy had shown up instead. Given her a lecture and sent her home.
Still, he’d wondered whether Ellie retained any of the courage he’d loved in her, the reckless wench. A carriage rumbled past, cutting her off from view and he waited with baited breath for her to reappear. He bared his teeth as she stepped into the road.
Walking right into his trap.
He flung the carriage door open and leapt down to kiss her hand. Under the hood of her cloak she wore a hat with a veil.
“Chérie,” he whispered huskily, leaning close to her ear. Vanilla. Memories stirred. Seductive. Full of languor and heated flesh. They always did when he smelled that particular scent. Her small gloved fingers trembled in his hand. Nervous, then, afraid of what he might do when he discovered her ruse. And rightly so. If he was her brother, he’d lock her up. God. He’d love to lock her up in a room with him. But it wouldn’t happen. Not when she learned of his treachery.
Without a word, she stepped into the carriage, settling into the corner.
He’d thought of every last detail, planned his strategy to an inch. The only wild card had been her. He leaned inside. “I will drive, chérie. It is more discreet that way.” He didn’t dare give her a chance to demand they turn back. He closed the door and climbed on to the box.
———
Startled, Eleanor made a lunge for the door. The carriage lurched into motion. Dash it. Why hadn’t she noticed the lack of a driver? Too terrified by her own bravado to notice anything but his large form waiting in the dark. She hadn’t expected him to leave her in the carriage alone with no chance for conversation.
She peered out of the window. Where on earth was he going? To his house? No, they had left St James’s and were now heading out of town.
She stared at the trapdoor above her head. Should she knock to get his attention? Or wait until they arrived at their destination? Where was he taking her? Wherever it was, they’d be alone together. Despite her effort to remain calm, her heart picked up speed.
What if she was wrong about him? What if he lost the temper he feared? Things could go very ill.
———
After what felt like hours, but could not have been more than one, the carriage halted outside a small but elegant house, somewhere near Chelsea, she thought. She shrank into the shadows when he opened the door.
“Where are we?” She no longer felt quite so brave.
“Still veiled, sweet?” Garrick held out his hand. “How very discreet. A good friend loaned me his love nest for the evening. I promise we shall not be disturbed.”
The announcement sparked her anger. Eleanor had heard hints of such places from the ladies of her acquaintance. Houses tucked away on the outskirts of town, where married men took their pleasure once they had fulfilled their duty as husbands. To think he would consider bringing her sister to a place like this. If that had been his plan.
She dredged up the words she’d practised at home, but before she could open her mouth he reached in, grasped her hand and tugged. “Don’t be shy, little one.”
Missing her footing on the step, she tumbled into his arms. Strong arms she remembered so well. His hand encircled her waist and he let her slide down his length before he set her on her feet. She shivered at the hot sensation of remembered bliss. How long since he had held her thus? A lifetime. The yearning she had buried deep returned with sharp vengeance.
He laughed at her gasp, his white teeth gleaming wickedly in the torchlight over the door. She was barely able to stand on legs as soft as warm butter; her heart beat a wild rhythm. Surely he heard it?
As if sensing her weakness, he swept her off her feet, picking her up as though she weighed no more than a child. If only he knew how she had longed to feel his arms around her again.
For one blissful, heavenly moment, she leaned her head against his shoulder, revelling in the oft-thought-of warm strength while he rang the bell. Oh Lord, someone would see them. She struggled and he set her down with a warm chuckle. “Patience, woman.”
The door opened and, holding her elbow fast, he ushered her straight past a footman in dark green livery, into a small salon off the marbled and mirrored entrance hall.
From beneath her veil, she took stock of her surroundings. The dark green walls absorbed much of the light from the single candelabra. A brown velvet sofa guarded an intricately carved, white marble hearth. Beside it, a small round rosewood table held a bottle of champagne and two glasses. A thick white rug covered the floor in front of the fire. She could imagine him stretched out on that rug, caressing one of his women. Except the face of the wicked woman in her mind was hers. If her heart had raced before, now it galloped. Her skin warmed from head to toe.
Across the room, a door led to an adjoining chamber.
He stood behind her, his hands at the hollow of her waist as he nuzzled her nape.
Delicious shivers raced down her spine. The years rolled away and she ached to lean against him, to let him carry her away into bliss. “My lord,” she said firmly.
His lips stilled. He drew back.
She turned and threw back her hood and the veil. “You and I need to talk.”
He smiled. All white teeth and little humour. A wolf inspecting his prey. His gaze travelled from her head to her feet in a slow appraising look that made her feel hot and cold by turn.
“Well, well, here you are, just as I expected.”
“Of course you did. You had your footman hand me the note. You didn’t think I’d see it and not open it, did you?”
He looked a little stunned, but she had to hand it to him, he recovered quickly. “Aah, chérie, I knew you’d do anything to protect your sister. Even this.” He bent his head and pressed his lips against her mouth, hard, demanding, ravishing. His tongue traced the seam of her lips and rivers of fire raced along her veins to burst into flame at her core. Her heartbeat drummed. She stood stiffly, resisting him with every fibre of her being.
He lifted his head. “You resist me now, but you won’t. You never could.”
“Any more than you could resist me?” she said, only too aware of the breathiness of her voice. “Garrick, I don’t have your letter. I swear it on my honour.”
His face fell. He spun away, ang
er and disappointment writ large on his face along with belief.
“I think William does,” she said to his stiff back. “He went back across the field, while I was in the cart. He must have protected you all these years, for my sake.”
He turned back. “William?” He lifted his hands from his sides, his shoulders rising. “It makes no sense. I’d swear he’d do anything to pay me back. Unless…” His expression turned to horror. “Oh God. It could not be that.”
He strode for the window and stared into the dark.
“What? Tell me. You are scaring me.”
He turned his head and met her eyes, his gaze clear, but his expression shuttered as if he was afraid she might see too much. “What if that letter exonerates me?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Why would he keep it hidden, if it proves my guilt? Think, Ellie. He hates me.”
William wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
Garrick must have seen the denial in her face because his mouth twisted in a wry smile and his eyes held pain. “You always believe the worst of me and the best of him. Get me that letter and you will never hear from me again.”
He offered it like a bribe. Was that what he thought she wanted? “What if it proves your guilt? What then?”
Agony blazed in his eyes. “It is not your business,” he said harshly. “I want that letter before I leave for France.”
She froze. “France?”
“Where else would I go? The beloved emperor returns.” Bitterness charged his voice, gave it a hard edge.
“Are you telling me you are a traitor?”
“I’m telling you nothing.”
Fear constricted her throat. “And once you have the letter, I will never see or hear from you again.”
He swallowed. “I swear it.”
Her heart ached as if it had been pounded by a hammer. He truly believed she didn’t care. And if he went to France, he would be lost to her forever. Even the little flicker of hope she carried deep in her heart would go out. “Garrick—”
“Don’t say another word.” He grabbed her cloak, tossed it to her, turning away as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. “Just find the letter.”
She clutched the soft fabric in her arms, struggling to comprehend his anger. “You hate me.”
He turned slowly. Two strides took him to her side. He gripped her shoulders. “How could I hate you? You saved my life, remember?”
———
A mistake, Garrick thought. Touching her, feeling her skin beneath his fingers. Seeing the flare of longing in her eyes, knowing the depths of her passion. It made letting her go all the more difficult. He’d been wrong to think he could seduce her all over again and feel nothing.
She reached up with her other hand, smoothing his hair back from his forehead—a gentle, intimate caress.
“I’ve missed you,” she said. “Did you ever think of me?”
He bit back the words in his heart: I never stop thinking of you, wanting you, looking for you. He dared not admit it. She’d find a way to use it against him. And still he wanted her, body and soul. As if without her he was incomplete, insubstantial, a wraith, walking through life on the outside looking in.
Struggling for control, he breathed deep and stepped back. “Ready to go?”
“Must we?”
Anger at her naïvety sparked a brush fire in his veins. “What did you want to do? Reminisce about old times? There is only one reason a man brings a woman to a place like this. If you don’t go now, I can’t promise nothing will happen.”
“Oh. I see.”
Damnation, she looked hopeful and it was all the encouragement his raging desire needed.
He caught her wrist and pulled her close. He fastened his mouth to hers, ravaging, demanding. And she kissed him back, arching against him, her mouth fervent, insistent. Four long years of loneliness rolled away as if they’d never been. Her kisses, the feel of her against him, was as familiar to him as his own face in the mirror. Perhaps more so, for his face had changed as she had not.
In a wonder that felt almost reverent, he lifted his head to look into her face and found her eyes heavy-lidded with desire and with an expression of such abandon, it sent him beyond the edge of reason. Groaning with passion so intense his body shook, he swept her up into his arms.
“Chérie,” he whispered as he entered the bedroom lit only by a fire. He set her down gently on her feet next to the bed covered in snowy white linens.
She reached up to twine her arms around his neck, her fingers running through the waves of hair that fell over his collar.
He pulled her hairpins free, letting her hair fall in a golden river around her face and over her shoulders. He grasped a handful of it and held it to his face. He inhaled deeply. The unique scent of her. “Ma mie, je t’adore. It is the colour of spun gold and soft like silk.” It was part of his memory.
Then his hands were behind her, expertly unfastening her gown, as he carefully placed tiny, fluttering kisses on her face. She whimpered, a sound so small, but so filled with longing, it stole his breath and any shred of reason he had left. Her hands shaped the curve of his shoulders, then grazed his chest, caressing, stroking, as if they remembered.
A moment later, she was pulling urgently at the buttons of his coat. He stopped unbuttoning her gown to allow her to push his jacket over his shoulders and shrugged it off. He tugged at his cravat till it, too, followed his coat to the floor. Feverish, on fire, he undid the top few buttons of his shirt and pulled it over his head. He heard the intake of her breath and drew in a hissing breath of his own as she pressed her lips to his chest.
He placed his hand beneath her chin, desperate to feel her mouth on his lips and as he crushed her close, her back arched, her hips hard against his thigh. His heart drummed so hard he thought his ribs would crack.
She wanted him. Always in this, he had her trust.
“Turn around, mignonette,” he whispered into her mouth. “I need you out of this gown.”
———
Eleanor did not want to let him go, to lose his heat, the feel of his skin under her fingers in case she lost her nerve. It was dreadfully wrong, but this would be their last time together. He seemed to sense her need for his touch, for even as he pulled at the tapes he kept one arm around her waist, pressing her buttocks against his thighs, his erection evident. An illicit thrill clenched between her legs. Rough and fast, he pulled her dress down over her arms and her hips to the floor. The brush of cool air sent shivers down her spine, and her knees trembled. The stays went next, tossed aside, and she turned to face him, smiling, clad only in a fine white-lawn chemise, silk stockings and slippers.
In the warm flicker of firelight, he loomed over her, tall, dark eyes licked with golden flame. Her gaze drifted down his lean body, fixed on a white indentation on his shoulder. Her gaze travelled over his chest, the dark curling patch of hair around his flat male nipples, a line running down his ridged hard belly. His muscles were taut as he held himself tense, a dangerous wild animal ready to spring, ready to devour and she longed to be tasted. Another scar zig-zagged across his side, ragged and badly puckered, a blasphemy in such masculine beauty. Her gaze flew to his face as she remembered. She touched it gently, for this was her fault.
He grasped her fingers and brought them to his lips, never taking his gaze from her face.
He smiled then, warm, open and wicked. The smile she loved. This was no ravening beast to be feared. This was her own wicked Marquess, his full mouth soft, his eyes gilded with longing. She slid her arms around his shoulders and he picked her up and deposited her upon the bed.
———
She was just as Garrick remembered, just as he had seen her every day in his mind. He always denied any thoughts of her at all. Now she was his for the taking and he exulted.
Nothing else mattered.
Not France, not England, and not his quest for truth.
He leaned over her, gently stroking her breasts, down
the soft plane of her belly, measuring her slender waist, his hands remembering the silken feel of her skin on his palms, the sweet rounded curve of breast, the valley between ribs and flare of hip. Slender, yet luscious.
She reached for him, pulling him towards her. She’d always been a bold, sensual wanton beneath the prim-and-proper miss. His body tightened, urging him on. He smiled down at her.
She frowned as if uncertain and touched his lips. Would she change her mind? Dear God, he prayed not, yet he waited. She grasped his shoulders, pulled herself up to kiss his mouth.
He closed his eyes in brief thanks. “Give me a moment, chérie.” He sat on the edge of the bed and dragged off his boots, hurrying, half-afraid she’d change her mind, stripping out of his pantaloons.
He turned to find her watching. His member pulsed at the touch of her gaze. His groin felt heavy and full. Placing one hand on each side of her head, he covered her body with his. Skin of satin, soft yielding flesh, welcoming warmth. His woman.
His breath left him in a long sigh and he plundered her mouth with his tongue, savoured the sweetness, triumphed in the way her tongue tangled with his, giving him pleasure, the way her body cradled him, her eyes glazed with desire. Then, with only the gentlest of pressure, he slid his knee between her thighs.
She opened to him, sweetly, honestly.
Desire writ strong in smoky eyes, she smiled and his heart cracked asunder at the sweet curve of her lips. This she wanted. His body. His pleasuring. Her hands wandered his arms, his shoulders, his torso, encouraging, urging. And this he would give.
He thrust into her, hard, deep. Tight and hot and wet, her body welcomed him home. Her moan of pleasure drove his own pleasure to heights he’d forgotten all these long years.
He groaned, and captured her mouth.
———
The feel of his body within her and the touch of his mouth on hers made Eleanor feel alive for the first time in years. Time returned to when she’d been happiest, if only she’d recognised it.
He was wrong about why she had come to him tonight, though she hardly dared admit it to herself. Taking Sissy’s place had been the fulfilment of a purely selfish need to spend one more night in his arms, taking joy for herself one last time.
Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress Page 19