He pressed her against his body—knowing she’d feel the proof of his words.
“Desire,” her voice came out treble-high, “is not grounds enough on which to build a marriage.”
“And yet, desire was ground enough for you to accept my wager.” He brought his lips ever closer to hers. “Test your earlier supposition: smile and see if I transform into the most accommodating of creatures.”
The corners of her lips turned up a fraction.
“Of course,” he continued, “you could employ more drastic methods.”
He pulled off her cap.
“You claimed,” she accused, “to desire me without the display of my feminine attributes.”
“I desire you the same.” He stroked his cheek against her tresses. “Nonetheless, I miss your hair.”
Her muscles drained of tension and she willingly rested against his chest.
“What else do you miss?” she asked.
“You, leaning across a table to stroke my arm.” He worked his fingers over her shoulders. “I miss your touch.”
Hesitantly, she swept her hand across his arm. He groaned and gathered her more dearly.
She tilted up her face. “What else, Hugh?”
“I miss,” he whispered, “your lips against mine.”
He lingered there, her body lending him courage to confess again.
“I am truly sorry I deceived you, sweetness.”
Her gaze searched his, troubled and intense. “I may not fear you any longer, but I fear this.”
He understood. Completely. “Make a command. Anything.”
Her soft release of breath caressed his cheeks. “I am not in charge.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Damnation, Randolph. Kiss me.”
“Scandalous little mouth.”
He touched his lips to hers with the care he’d take sipping costly cognac. Her light but lingering taste had the same luscious complexity.
She locked her arms around his neck and lifted herself to her toes, demanding he go deeper. Triumph flooded his veins and handed passion all control. Thought disengaged—ravenous hunger remained. She was fire, he the heat…no longer large and small, male and female, now one, single beast.
She pulled back, panting. The sting of her nails lingered on his back.
“Here,” she said, eyes wild as if making a devil’s deal. “I will be with you, as your wife. Here. I will not speak for London.”
“Yes, here.” Here was enough…for now.
She pushed him back. “I must go and collect my things.”
She stepped out of his arms and he allowed her to pass. At the top of the stair, she paused.
“This time,” she said, “you win.”
If he told her he no longer saw this as a war, would she believe?
“How is it I have won,” he asked, “when I vow only to act on your command?”
She rolled her eyes. “I will believe that on a hot day in January.”
She turned and descended the stairs. He was in no condition to follow.
“You know what else I miss?” he yelled. “My valet, my cook, my groom, and my library!”
From the entry hall, she leaned over the railing and peered up. “A small price to pay for an enthralling wife.”
With her parting shot volleyed, she left.
Randolph pulled back his shoulders and stretched his neck trying to think of anything but the kiss they had just shared…and the bed lounging against the wall.
Sophia was wrong. He’d paid dearly in trouble and sense to have her as his wife.
…Which was only one of the reasons why he did not intend to give her up.
Chapter Nine
Earl Baneham’s Rules for Winning
“…Pardon, of what rules were we speaking?”
Sophia peered into the small reflecting glass placed beside the bedchamber basin, pondering how to proceed. The rare times she had called on Baneham’s rules to help her survive in a world hostile to a woman alone, she had won her goal but had been left jaded. Tonight, she was determined to indulge in one of the few things she had ever truly allowed herself to want—Randolph.
Those rules had no place in this indulgence.
This short time may be all she and Randolph would have. She would allow nothing to intrude…not the Earl, not Kasai, not the past, and most certainly not the future.
She dipped her hands into the water Anna had delivered. She closed her eyes and held her face over the rising steam. Like everything at present, the steam was a contradiction—at once invigorating and soothing. She had come to Elizabeth’s farm to get away from a husband she could not trust, and yet here she was, anticipating the sharing of his bed. She was a widow of experience, yet her body hummed with the uncertain excitement of a virgin bride.
She remembered her first husband as a generous lover, but, even so, he had never sparked the kind of fire that smoldered within when Randolph’s hungry gaze met hers.
What if she did not please Randolph?
What if, heaven forbid, Randolph did not please her?
She opened her eyes. Her mirror reflected back a distinct whom-do-you-think-you-are-kidding expression. She and Randolph had danced around passion’s fire long enough for her to be certain they would complement one another.
What she truly feared was something far worse.
…Despite her belief that what she felt was merely lust, she feared their joining would mark a point-of-no-return. Once she had Randolph, she feared some part of her would claim him as hers and hers alone. What would become of her if she started to want—no need—more from him than his touch?
Where would she be then? Such desires would come to no good end.
He had put himself between her and Kasai. But he was who he was. A spy who took orders from the man who had lied about Baneham’s death.
At this game’s crux, where would Randolph’s loyalties lie?
Beyond the screen, the door clicked open. She listened to his footsteps as he crossed the floor. The bed squealed, adjusting to his weight. Her body warmed as if she had stepped into a steam-filled room—steam which came from more than the water in the small basin.
The time for caution had passed. What would happen after they returned to London was a problem for another day.
She dabbed away the excess and straightened the neckline of her simple cotton shift. What she would give to have just one of her wide selection of beautiful, embroidered fine-lawn nightgowns—all with lovely, matching rails. Donning something beautiful would be just the thing to smooth her fraying confidence.
“Sophia?” Randolph’s voice was low…a simmering brew of hunger and anticipation.
“A moment, please,” she called.
“Take as long as you like.”
He threaded his words with irony. She could almost hear his unspoken thoughts: What are a few more moments? We have waited long already.
“I have a wedding present.”
“A present?” she asked, foolishly pleased.
He rose, approached the screen, and laid a shimmering froth of deep indigo blue silk over the top. She touched the exquisite fabric with reverence.
“Randolph,” she said in the way she might have said oh my—mounds of glimmering diamonds! Her heart leapt to the roof of her mouth and remained fixed, preventing further comment.
“An offering of peace.” He lingered for a moment, and then returned to the bed.
She lifted the—what should she call it?—the creation off the screen. It was unlike any nightgown she had ever seen. Sleeping in such a splendor would be neither practical nor, necessarily, comfortable. But, as she ran the fabric through her fingers, the silk whispered seductively against her skin—a perfect metaphor for her attraction to the man beyond the screen.
Pleasurable, costly, utterly irresponsible to indulge…and, so, so marvelous.
She pulled her shift over her head and banished the cotton garment to a hook on the wall. She slipped the silk down her body
. The fabric tickled her arms as she fit them in the short, ruffled sleeves. She tightened the drawstring of the loose-fitted neckline. As she tied a bow, she remembered the fantasy he had described—he said he would tie her hands and free her breasts and—
Her breath caught on her inhale.
Scandalous.
She actually felt she could own the name Lady Scandal wearing this gown while the details of Randolph’s fantasy danced on the fringe of her memory. The beauty, the expense, and the sensation of being wrapped in luxury were more than enough to inspire the feeling. Randolph had created this gown for her, carried it from London, and had kept it secret until just the right time—perhaps he was wrapped around her finger, after all.
She wished she had a larger mirror.
“You were right,” she said.
“Of course,” he replied. “But on what point?”
She peeked beyond the screen. “I am a vain and frivolous woman.”
Clad only in a nightshirt, Randolph curled his lips into a knowing smile. “Now there is the lady who stole my fancy.” He leaned back on one elbow, and the linen edged up, exposing his thighs. “Come out. Let me drink you in.”
She blushed. “I am not sure I should be seen.”
His gaze gleamed wolfish and dark. “Come out. This has been one hellish carnal fast and I intend to feast.”
A thrill made her grin. “Close your eyes.”
He groaned, glanced heavenward, and shook his head, but he did as she bid. As she tiptoed across the floor, silk rippled against her skin in delicious caresses. She stood, her knees touching his, with only a film of fabric between.
“May I open my eyes?” he asked.
“Not,” she breathed, “yet.”
She took her fill of him, letting her gaze roam over his chiseled face. She had wanted to bury both her hands in his hair for as long as she could remember. He had such thick, lovely waves.
He held his weight on his elbow. Her gaze fell to the untied collar of his linen nightshirt where his chest muscle peeked out. Everything about Randolph was strong. Strong neck. Strong shoulders. Strong chest. Strong…oh dear heavens. A sharp stab of heat sank into her belly. Quickly, she brought her gaze back to his closed eyes. She parted her lips to tell him to open his eyes but her words died on her tongue.
Fuck cards and gaming. Fuck Kasai and his nefarious games.
This was risk. This was complete vulnerability.
Involuntarily, she shivered. “What if…?” She began.
“Shh,” he said, peeking out from one eye. “Neither of us can predict the future.”
Of course, he did not know the answer to what if. He did not know anything more than she knew. And all she knew was she wanted him. Now.
Well, that, and she was resolved to have him.
“May I look at you now?” he asked.
“You may,” she said.
He opened his eyes, and his gaze traveled leisurely over her brazenly clad body.
“Do you approve?” she asked.
He chuckled low.
“Don’t laugh!” she cried, stepping back.
“Shh.” He wrapped his hands around each of her thighs. “I am not laughing at you. You are delectable. The perfect sustenance,” he parted his knees and yanked her between his legs, “for a starving man.”
Looking down into his eyes was novel. Something churned in those grey depths…something she wished he would share.
“Perhaps we cannot predict the future,” she echoed, “but tell me what you know right now.”
“I know,” he said, “this night rail brings out the color of your eyes in just the way I had hoped.” His low tone held stretched-to-breaking patience. “And I know,” one hand traveled to touch her cheek, “I love the sight of your faint dimple—”
Her favorite feature. She was preposterously pleased.
“—and I know,” he dropped his finger to her neck, “when you swallow, the little valley here at the base of your throat cries out to be kissed.”
Her heart dropped, thick and liquid inside her belly. “Does it?”
“Yes.”
She swallowed.
He leaned forward and placed his lips on the spot he described. Heat traveled to her cheeks as her nipples peaked against the gown. He dropped his hand to match the other’s grip on the back of her thigh. His fingers crept upward, dangerously close to her feminine place.
“Anything else?” she whispered.
He stroked her lightly through the fabric—a touch designed to tantalize more than to please. She gasped.
“I know,” he said, rumbling and dark, “my lady so fiercely needs a fuck her wetness is seeping through the silk and onto my fingers.”
His hair tickled the skin beneath her chin. His breath warmed the space between her breasts. She wrapped her arms around him, threaded her fingers into his hair, and pressed her lips to his part.
This breathless feeling was more than just lust. The feeling was two dissonant notes played by a single bow swipe. Vulnerability and strength. Need and fulfillment. And something else—something that sounded beyond the jarring notes. The hopeful start of a melody she had never heard before.
Dampness bled between her lashes.
“You can loosen your grip, Sophia Jane. I am not going anywhere.”
With a second gasp she realized her hands had fisted in his hair. She let them fall away, filtering his satiny, warm strands through her fingers.
He leaned back to look up into her eyes. “Nothing could tear me from your side.”
Not long ago, such a vow on his lips would have been a threat. Tonight, his words touched her, flowing inside and brimming in her broken places.
“What do you know, sweetness?” he asked.
“I know I want you more than I have ever wanted anyone or anything in my life.”
“More than silk?”
“Yes.” She parted her lips. “More, even, than the fear burning,” she touched her breastbone, “in here.”
“You need never fear me, my love.”
My love was nothing more than an expression, but her heart swelled as if he had spoken words of true love.
“Kiss me,” she demanded, for the second time.
“My wife’s wish,” his hands spanned her neck and he rested his fingertips inside her hair, “is my pleasure.” Gently, he guided her lips down to meet his own.
She remembered every kiss they’d shared. Each had left her reeling. This kiss was like none other. This kiss was softer than the silk against her body, hotter than the growing fire under her skin. She sagged against his chest, careful not to crush him. This kiss threatened to buckle her legs.
He answered her unspoken need and brought her to rest on his knee. His rough stubble pricked against the calluses on her hands, and she loved the rough caress. Their mouths melded—a swaying dance of taste and dominance.
“We have,” he said breathlessly, “no cause to rush.”
“So you say. While I am hot, and wet, and mad for your touch.”
She delighted in his deep-throated laugh. He pressed his lips to her hairline, as she had done to him.
“If my lady wants pleasure, then pleasure she will have.”
She squealed as he lifted her and stood, cradling her like something precious in his arms.
“You will hurt yourself!”
“Please,” he snorted, “you are a bag of feathers.”
“I am a bag?” she asked.
He settled her on the bed. He rested his weight on one knee and hovered above.
“I amend my description.” He kissed her dimple, then her chin, then her ear, then her neck. “You are lighter than a fanciful array of ostrich plumes.”
She closed her eyes and moaned.
“What I am is on fire,” she said, “everywhere.”
“Le pauvre bébé,” he murmured. “Allow me to make amends.” He settled himself by her side and propped up his head with his elbow. “Air, I think, may help.” He pulled loose the bo
w gathering the neck of her gown and pulled down the fabric. “There,” he said with deep satisfaction. “Better now?”
“Not in the least.”
He lowered his head and took a nipple into his mouth. Languidly, he taught himself her preference, just as he had promised he would in the fantasy he’d shared on that long-ago night. Blood moved beneath her skin, pink heat spreading like unfurled ribbons down her body, her color giving him every answer he sought. He nipped hard and she cried out in pleasure-pain.
“Not helping,” she whimpered.
“It is helping me.”
“Rogue.” She forced his mouth back to her breast.
His finger traced a light line from her ribs to her thigh and then—fully aware of the sensations the fabric would cause, he slid her gown up her thigh—higher and higher until she was fully exposed. He left his hand resting on her hip.
“Touch me.” She shocked herself with her bold command.
“Touch, yes. But how?”
He disappeared, leaving one hand resting on the valley between her breasts, directly over her heart. With his other hand, he parted her thighs.
He stretched her intimate folds and then acceded to her command—not with his finger, but with his burning-liquid tongue. He teased her where she felt her greatest sensation and commenced an intricate game of advance and retreat, carefully measured against her sighs and her moans.
Could one die of delight? Her frenzy was too decadent. Yet, she craved more. She gave herself over to the passion, over to the desire flowing from her core. Pleasure which couldn’t exist, and yet it did—pleasure infusing vitality she had never experienced.
All her simmering emotion, burst forth, erupting in an explosion that lifted her to her elbows and forced her to cry out hard enough to wet the corners of her eyes.
He lifted his face. Holding her gaze, he licked his lips. So carnal, so intimate—of Eros, but pure. This man who had so easily commanded her passion was not the man she had imagined him to be when he had lounged on her sofa. Nor was he the man she had feared when she learned of his past. This man was so much more than either.
Together, they were locked within life’s seed—a messy, sacred, human passion.
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