I care. I care. I care. Once was not enough.
“Do you have something you wish to say?” he asked.
Hell. Not yet.
“I am happy you are safely home.” She lifted herself to her toes and kissed his neck. “Hugh.”
She had said his name just for the sake of hearing the sound. She loved his name. Loved the way it sighed on her breath. Loved the look in his eyes when she said it.
“Does my lady have a command this evening?”
She nodded. “Ravishment. Complete and total.”
“My lady is demanding.”
“Indeed she is.”
“Well, then.” He sat on the mattress in an echo of their positions last night. “Where shall I begin?”
She pointed to the sensitive valley between her jaw and her ear. He obliged with soft kisses that hardened her nipples.
“I have not seen you yet,” he murmured.
“You have seen me.”
He shook his head no and his lips tickled her ear. “I have not seen all of you.” He drew back, eyes dark and arresting. “Take off your shift.”
She lifted the shift over her head and cast it aside, feeling no compulsion at all to cover herself. There was something terribly intimate about being naked in the presence of a man. She had been so before, of course. But she hadn’t had such a deep longing for her first husband’s regard. Her flesh cried out for Hugh, cried out from every inch.
She rested a foot on his knee, loosened the tie holding her stockings, and slowly rolled them down. They were simple wool stockings, not like the silk ones with the pretty ribbon closures she had at home, but the failing did not seem to dampen his fascination.
When she was without a stitch of covering, he drew her down onto the bed, took her foot into his hands, and began rubbing his thumb along the ball of her foot. She moaned.
“You like that?”
“Yes.” Why could her body communicate with his with such ease, when she was unable to capture her stronger feeling for him in words? “Keep doing that, and I will do anything you ask.”
“Be careful what you offer. I have,” he watched her with care, “a truly depraved mind.”
His rough thumbs touched only her inner foot and her whole body drained of tension. His hands were utterly brilliant.
“You already told me you would not share.” She bit her bottom lip. “I fear nothing else you can imagine.”
“Perhaps you should.”
“You would not hurt me.”
“No,” he agreed. “But anything you find exciting, I would explore.”
Little pinpricks rushed down her spine, making her wetter than she already was.
“Even things…” he paused. “No. Especially things that make you blush.”
She only partially understood his meaning—she supposed it had something to do with his fantasized use of her fichu—but she felt indescribably naughty nonetheless.
She lifted her other foot and placed it on his chest.
“This one, please.” Her prim request at odds with the blood-thrill in her veins.
He chuckled. “So quickly you’ve gone from promising anything I ask to demanding more.”
“You should have stopped with what you had.”
“As you should have, when you won the ninth game.”
Her color drained. She could not tell him she had thrown the game. Not now. Not naked. How could she offer herself with no shame, and yet, not be able to say the words filling her heart?
“You assured me,” she said lightly, “marriage to you would have certain benefits.” She lifted herself on her elbows, lowered her eyelashes, and cast him a smoldering look. “I find I quite agree.”
He ran his hands up her legs and rested his thumbs in the crook of her thighs.
“I told you,” he said, “I preferred you in silk.”
“Humm.”
“I have changed my mind. I much prefer you without clothes.”
“And yet,” she said accusingly, “you retain your breeches.”
He lifted his brows. “I thought ladies found the male form brutish and distasteful.”
She made a sound of derision. “To whom have you been speaking?”
“Perhaps I have been misled,” he said, “but my sharp angles and rough edges cannot compare to the loveliness of your form.”
“Stop stalling and take off your breeches.”
“A command?”
“A plea.”
“Very well, then.” He got up off the bed, and turned his back. He unbuttoned his breeches and slid them off along with his hose giving her an excellent view of the muscles in his nether regions. Fine muscles they were, too.
He returned to the bed on his knees, hovering above her body in all his male majesty. She should not compare, she knew, but his body bore little resemblance to her first husband. Where her first had been wiry—her second was thick. Where her first’s chest had been bare, her second’s had a smattering of silky hair. Where her first had been adequate—her eyes dropped to his cock—Randolph was…
She had a sudden hot and heavy feeling between her legs. Randolph was hers—all of him—hers to do with what she pleased. She licked her lips and came to her knees, matching his kneel.
“I have changed my mind,” she said. “I would much rather ravish, than be ravished.”
She placed her lips against his neck, in the same spot that had driven her wild. There, he tasted savory. She touched her palm to his heart, and, with her smallest finger, flicked his nipple.
“Sweetness,” he said hoarsely, “I am not sure I can survive ravishment.”
“You are strong,” she quipped. “Be brave.”
Steadying herself with hands on his hips, she explored his neck with tender kisses—delighting how the texture of his skin grew soft as she approached his ear.
“I love,” she hesitated, “the way you look.”
“You,” he rejoined with a groan, “are not looking.”
“Then, I love the way you taste, too.”
“Much more of this and I will have to tie your hands.”
She froze. The tightening in her stomach, the heat in her cheeks gave her answer. Traveling up his chest with both her hands, and then pushing them over his shoulders, down his arms to his fingertips. She leaned back, eyes fixed on his cock.
“I do not need them for what I intend to do.”
She glanced up to find his eyes fixed intently on her face. He took her wrists into his hands, pinned them behind her back with one hand and yanked downward. Her breasts arched.
He cupped himself with his free hand. “Is this what you want?”
She was not having any trouble being bold with Randolph. And, somehow, she knew he would not think less of her for matching the boldness he had shown. Safe in their little world, she could be as wanton as she pleased—so long as he remained her pleasure’s source.
She sucked her lower lip into her mouth and nodded, not at all ashamed.
“Take me in your mouth, Sweet.”
She bent forward, closed her eyes, and savored the soft feel of his hard manhood sliding against her cheek. He was warm, smooth, and already moistening at the tip. A few weeks ago, she had seen drawings of this particular act—an act she had only performed once, and then only in the dark.
This was so much better.
She closed her lips around his manhood. His deep-gut groan reverberated against her tongue. He placed his hand against the back of her head, encouraging.
With increasing speed, she moved her lips up and down the veined skin. Lost in the rhythm, she wanted to take him farther. Intentionally, she relaxed her throat. With the next thrust she took him back far as she could.
He jerked involuntarily. A surge of heady power swept through her body. She curled the tip of her tongue.
“Stop.” His command was gruff and final. He pulled out, breathing deep and heavy.
She looked up, licking her lips.
His scent was powerful and the l
ook he was giving her—like the rest of the room had gone black—made her breasts heavy. He kissed her with his taste still lingering on her tongue as he unpinned her hands and guided her onto her back. The shock of his full weight unleashed an overwhelming flood of tenderness. The edges of her eyes blurred.
Then, his hand was on her breasts with the other between her legs—too many sensations to parse. Pleasure, overwhelming, soul-renting pleasure. She hadn’t the time to resist, hadn’t the time to keep him at arm’s length or stay in control. He teased through her weakened defenses, forcing her into an ever-tighter point of pleasure until every muscle contracted and then she burst in unfurling waves of heat.
She shook as he entered her, and felt every inch of the exquisite, primal stretch. He held himself aloft, hands by each of her shoulders as he pumped. She held onto his rippling forearms and dropped her face to her side. She licked his inner wrist.
He built up to a shuddering climax. This time, however, he did not lose himself. At the crucial moment, he pulled out and held himself against her body. He hissed through clenched teeth before he crumpled, fully spent, into her arms.
Something inside her cracked and pained.
“Sophia, sweetness,” he said hoarsely, “what am I going to do with you?”
“That is the question,” she forced her voice to false lightness, “isn’t it, Hugh?”
“Ummm,” he responded sinking into the pillow and burying his head in her hair.
Chapter Twelve
Earl Baneham’s Rules for Winning
“Draw away the enemy’s resources before attack. Then, act decisive and act first.”
The first scream cut through Sophia’s sleep before her limbs had shed their pleasure-drunk weight. Randolph propped himself up on his elbows.
She turned toward him, tucked her arm beneath her head, and yawned. “There is no need for concern. It’s just Anna.”
“Just Anna,” he repeated.
“Mmmm,” Sophia murmured in assent. “Anna has nightmares. Elizabeth will wake her and she will quiet.”
Another blood-curdling scream rent the air, this one followed by the shattering of glass. Sophia’s eyes flew all the way open and she sat straight. Randolph shot his arm across her chest, preventing her from rising.
“Do not move,” he said.
A door slammed, followed by unintelligible shouting.
“We must help,” Sophia whispered through her teeth.
“I will go. Stay here,” Randolph ordered. “Do you understand?”
Silhouetted by the faint light of the moon, he grabbed his breeches from the chair. He slipped his legs into leather with the ease of a man who often rushed to dress.
Sophia threw back the sheets. Randolph’s hand clamped her leg as she attempted to swing her feet onto the floor.
“You will stay, even if I have to lock you in.”
She searched his face. The stark crease in his forehead told her volumes.
“What do you know?” Damnation. She should have followed the rules, damn her heart. She should have demanded he relay what he had learned today.
“There is no time,” he answered. “Please just trust me. For once.”
Unfair. She opened her mouth. His fingers tightened on her leg.
“Please.” He was truly concerned.
“I will stay in the room,” she conceded, “but I must dress.”
“Yes. Good thought.”
He released her, grabbed her shift, and tossed her the garment. Their fingers touched—hot and urgent.
“Go,” she said.
Something passed between them, unspoken and indistinct.
“Lock the door behind me,” he said.
She donned her shift as she followed him down the stairs. He slammed the door in his wake without a glance back. She slipped a metal bar into place and then checked to ensure the windows were shuttered and barred. Outside, the shouts and the neighing of horses grew louder.
Clothes. She needed clothes. She took the stairs two at a time.
She fastened the ties of her woolen dress and then cautiously approached the window.
What could have happened? Clearly, this disturbance was not borne of Anna’s nightmares. She’d seen the truth in Randolph’s eyes. They were the reason violence and mayhem had come to this place of peace.
Out in the night, she spotted a dark figure against the trees—a lone rider heading into the forest. Her gaze flew to the stables. Randolph, his white shirt glowing in the moon, emerged on Charlemagne. The horse neighed, stomped once, and then headed toward the wood.
Sophia frowned. Something was not right. She scanned the courtyard, the house, and then the fields. Movement below caught her eye. A person cloaked in black rushed through the darkness heading directly for her door. Someone was coming. Someone who intended deadly harm.
The attackers had divided to conquer—another rule, not Baneham’s but one he used nonetheless.
She flung open the window.
“Randolph,” she screamed. Hoping to God he had heard, she turned back into the room and grabbed a fire poker. The Earl’s image reared in her mind. Harden your heart, Sophia. When it is you or them, your loyalties reside in one place.
She swallowed a surge of bile and melted into the shadow of the corner. Over the mad beat of her heart, she listened.
The intruder abandoned the front door. A flutter of panic quivered through her throat. She was trapped like an animal awaiting slaughter.
Each shutter rattled as the intruder checked for weaknesses in a thatched roof house hardly capable of serving as fortress. Sophia closed her eyes and counted from memory—one window in the front, two on the side. Two in the rear. He worked clockwise and would soon be below.
Her uncertainty melted away in the cold sweat of terror. She became the daughter of The Ruthless. The poker she would save for a face-to-face fight. With cool calculation, she eyed the room, searching for the heaviest thing. She spotted an iron cruise lamp hanging on the wall beside the bed. She would light the twisted cloth wick, drop the contents, and rain liquid pig fat fire on the intruder.
But first, to make him still, she needed to get his attention…
Her eyes settled on Randolph’s shining boots—the pair he had worn the first day he arrived. If only he had screwed spurs into the holes in the heels, but of course he had not. She tucked a heavy boot under her arm, lifted the cruise lamp, and then hastily lit the wick.
She waited by the window, boot aloft in one hand and burning lamp in the other. When the shutters below rattled, she aimed for his head and tossed the boot.
“Be gone or burn,” Sophia yelled.
The dark form reared back, cursing. He looked up. A horrible, sickening recognition stung Sophia. He was a she.
…a she enough like Sophia to be staring into a portrait of her older self.
“Helena?” she breathed.
She’d never seen the half-sister Baneham had mentioned in his will. Never known of her existence until the solicitor had informed her that the earl, of his vast fortune, had granted Helena Baneham a mere two hundred pounds.
The solicitor had sought, but never found, the missing woman.
“Sophia Baneham,” the woman raised her arm, “this ends tonight.”
The spark of flint hitting gunpowder was the last thing Sophia saw before she hit the floor.
…
Earl Baneham’s Rules for Winning
“Study your errors. Do not make them twice.”
A shot rent the air behind Randolph.
“Sophia!” A hoarse, strained call sprung to his lips before his mind could form a thought.
Rider and horse disappeared into the trees. His choice was simple: catch the bastard who had attacked Anna or save his wife. He looked over his shoulder. The moonlight painted the distant grouping of houses in shades of blue. She could be hurt back there. Bleeding.
God forbid—dying.
A musket held one ball. Unless the assailant had two guns, he
’d have a minute, maybe more, to prevent another shot.
With a sharp expletive, he turned back.
Charlemagne sensed his urgency. Despite the darkness, the horse raced through the brush and then back across the field with impressive speed. Randolph called Sophia’s name amid the thunder of his horse’s hooves. Sophia. Sophia. Sophia. His repetition matched his heartbeat.
A dark shadow fled past the house toward the opposite wood. He let him go. Only one thing mattered.
He reached the farmhouse and dismounted in a leap. He plowed toward the door, shoving his shoulder into wood with his weight’s full force. A sharp pain ricocheted through his arm.
A howl echoed through the window.
“Sophia!” he yelled.
He fit his foot against the door handle and hoisted himself against the wall using every ounce of power in his strap-stretched cords of muscle. His fingers found the smallest of holds on the wood frame’s edge. He propelled himself upward. His wrist strained—but he swung an arm over the window ledge just in time. With power fueled by fear and will, he lifted himself into the window.
“I have a pistol.” His wife’s voice was ground into his fear—low, deadly, and nearly unrecognizable.
“No you do not.” Relief was a full-body dip into a warm-water spring.
“Randolph?” Her grating voice sounded confused. “Be careful. There is glass.”
He swung his second foot onto the floor, grabbed his bedside candle and lit it in what remained of the fire. He turned.
“Sophia!”
In a heap on the floor, she held her foot. Blood seeped through her fingers. Her grey wool dress black with soot and wet with something smelling like lard. The look in her eye chilled him to his soul.
“Did you get her?” she asked.
“Get her?”
“My attacker.”
He blinked. “No.”
“Then why,” she said through clenched teeth, “are you here?”
Gingerly, he wiped away the shards of glass and knelt by her side. “What happened?”
Lady Scandal Page 16