Ah, but the sad reality of it was that he’d been subject to the whims of others for more than half his life. Lady Esterly had been old enough to be his mother when she’d plied him with attention, gifts, and drink. He’d been fourteen, orphaned by a father who reasoned with his fists and a flighty mother. The interest of an older, worldly, beautiful woman like the Countess of Esterly had been a siren’s lure. And just that easily, he’d been trapped. His time and his body had never again been his own.
Until now. Although even now, he had still trapped himself. But this time, he was old enough, wise enough, to know what he was about. This time he saw a beautiful woman, smart and prickly and bold and odd, and he was fascinated. Fascinated in a way that had nothing to do with the fortune she brought with her. No, if he were brutally honest with himself, he’d admit that his actions weren’t entirely mercenary. A sobering thought if there ever was one, that.
“We’re all subject to the whims of others in one fashion or another,” he told her as he muddled his way through the painful remnants of his past. Remnants he hadn’t realized still required muddling, after all this time. “Some of us are merely better at fooling ourselves into thinking we aren’t than others.”
“I suppose you’re correct in that assessment, my lord. We are all at the mercy of someone else at times, are we not?” Her drawl was soft and under-pronounced. A delicious trill.
There was her exotic, citrus scent again, teasing him. Luring him. He leaned forward, closing the distance between them in the confines of the carriage, and traced the silken curve of her cheek.
“And now you’ve placed yourself at my mercy, little dove.” He withdrew, bit the tip of his glove, and shucked it. Bare skin, the better to touch her. To tempt them both. He cupped her cheek, then traced a delicate path to the supple curve of her rose-pink mouth. His thumb ran over her lush lower lip once, twice, thrice. The seam of her Cupid’s bow parted and he sank his thumb inside, feeling her wet heat. God, how he wanted that. How he wanted her. To hell with his promise of a proper courtship. This woman was his, damn it. “Why would you choose me, of all men?”
She nipped his thumb, startling and intriguing him all at once. Of course she would bite. He pulled back.
“I’m at no one’s mercy,” she denied. “Not any longer. That is precisely why I chose you.”
“Do you think me so easily controlled, then? Do you think you can wave your papa’s money in my face and make me come to heel like your pet?” Anger rose within him, swift and strong. He recognized that this fury was old, pouring from a deep wound, that it was not necessarily hers to bear. But he wanted her to understand that he was not weak. He was not—would not ever again be—a plaything, a man to be toyed with by a woman whose needs he fulfilled. He had played that role for far too long.
“Of course not. Ours is an even exchange. You get your portion of my dowry and I get mine and—most importantly—my freedom.”
Her reasoning was calm, unperturbed. As if she weren’t sharing an enclosed space with one of the lowliest rakes in London, sans chaperone. Some beast within him rose up then, wanting to shake her from her tranquility.
“What if I’ve decided that I want more than you bargained, little dove?” he asked, touching the smart trimmings on her bottle-green street suit directly above her madly thumping heart. Bless fashion. Bless her, all stubbornness and beauty and sunshine. “What if I want you?”
Her supple lips pursed into a moue that he found equal parts fetching and irritating. “Our agreement is not negotiable.”
So she thought. Ah, silly chit, believing he possessed a shred of honor. He slid a casual but firm touch around her neck, his fingers catching in the silken web of her carefully coifed hair. His grip tightened, pulling her head back with just enough strength to show her who was truly in control. “I could take you here. Now. I could slide my hands under your skirts, over your calves, straight to your soft thighs and the slit in your drawers. We both know you would welcome me.”
She stared at him, her bosom rising and falling with the violence of her breaths. She wasn’t alarmed. Rather, she was…intrigued, he’d wager. Aroused. His little dove possessed a wicked streak, it would seem. Her lips parted ever so slightly.
“You wouldn’t dare.” Her words were a low, throaty whisper. Her pupils were large and round in her brilliant blue eyes. She looked for all the world like the lushest, sweetest peach hanging before him on a branch, all ripe and ready to be plucked. Or, as it were, fucked.
He grinned. “Oh, I’d more than dare.” With his free hand, he demonstrated, reaching beneath her voluminous skirts to find the hollow of her knee. Her heat singed him through her silk stockings, and of its own volition, his hand traveled higher still, coursing over her frilled drawers to cup the delicious curve of her outer thigh. “Part your legs for me, darling.”
Her eyes went wide, her body tensing beneath his touch. She wasn’t accustomed to such familiarity, of that much he was certain. But her untried innocence appealed to him in ways he hadn’t anticipated, and despite his best intentions for a proper courtship, the urge to show her pleasure was strong. He longed to bring her body to life, to give her the first, forbidden taste of passion.
“We’re meant to have a proper courtship, my lord, and then a marriage in name only,” she reminded him breathlessly.
“Mmm, but that is all deadly boring. Let me make you spend, love. Just once.” He was like an opium addict now, drawn to what he craved—Clara, her passion, her innocence, the illicit —and he couldn’t stop until he sampled at least a bit of it.
Her thighs fell open to his questing touch. He found the slit of her drawers, damp with her dew. Lust surged over him. His fingers traced her soft mound in slow, gentle strokes, circling her pearl. She jerked and tensed beneath him. He stroked her, toyed with her. Back and forth. She caught her lip in her teeth, head tipping back against the carriage squab. Ah, she was sweet. Slick and hot. He wanted to taste her, to put his mouth where his hand was and lick and suck her until she came undone.
Her eyes closed.
No, he was having none of that. He increased his pressure ever so slightly. “Look at me, Clara.”
She refused, turning her head to the side, remaining otherwise open to him. Her cunny was as responsive as ever, her wetness bathing his finger. But he wanted her completely, wanted her gaze to meet his as he gave her the first taste of pleasure.
“Look at me,” he demanded again. He’d played many games with many lovers over the years. But this was different. This wasn’t about control or domination or titillation. It was about her, and it was about him and things he had never even imagined he’d desire.
She gave in at last, turned back to him, her eyes clashing with his. A pant stole from her. “What do you want from me?”
Her question surprised him. Everything, he wanted to say. Every part of you. All your innocence, all your passion, every bit of your delectable body. Instead, “I want you to lose yourself. Give in. Watch me as I bring you pleasure.”
He was well aware of his depravity, leading a maiden down the garden path of the dissolute. She’d kissed with a charming inexperience that suggested she’d kissed a scant few men, if any, before him. She was a virgin, a naïf he’d sworn to chastely court. And yet here he was, hand up her skirts, inside her drawers, playing with her, craving not only her climax but also her complete abandon. He was already teaching her how to be wicked.
It was as if she’d heard his words herself, for a change came over her. Her hands flew to his chest, pushing him back to the squab opposite her. He went, allowing her to overpower him with ease. Perhaps she wasn’t quite ready to be as wicked as he wanted her to be. Perhaps she lied to herself. She straightened her posture into a stiff, ladylike pose, fidgeting her skirts into place.
“A marriage in name only, my lord,” she reminded him with the cool, august bearing of a queen. She could be proper when she wished, the spitfire before him. “As I said, the terms are not negotiable, and I’l
l thank you not to place your hands upon my person again.” She blushed furiously as she said the last.
But he wasn’t about to accept her dismissal so easily. He raised his fingers, still glistening with the evidence of her desire, to his mouth, and tasted them. Sweet and musky. His cock went painfully rigid against his trousers. “Never again?” he asked with a wicked grin.
She stared at him. He’d shocked her. But he’d also intrigued her, and he could see it quite plainly. “Never again,” she repeated, her tone rather faint. She swallowed. “Our agreement won’t change. Now if you’d be so kind as to return me to where I belong? I don’t suppose it truly takes this length of time to get a carriage back to my father’s home from where you found me, regardless of the absolute Belgravia crush.”
She was turning his own words against him. Yes, she was a clever minx. But even the most clever of minxes could be outfoxed. He’d win her yet, even if he did dread the day he’d have to face her wrath when she realized he had no intention of allowing her to go traipsing back to Virginia like the lamb bound for slaughter.
“Very well,” he agreed with a relaxed air he was far from feeling. He rapped on the carriage, signaling to his driver that their circling was, alas, at an end. Not all wars could be won in a single battle, but he was prepared to lay siege of the very best sort.
he earl had put his hand up her skirts.
And she’d let him.
Clara could not force the thought from her mind. Not as she went about her preparation for dinner that night. Not as she dressed for breakfast the next day. Not as her father addressed her with the frigidity of a stranger. Not as she politely inquired as to the wellbeing of Lady Bella’s mother. (Still as much of a harridan as ever and merely the victim of a bad fish course conflated with a tendency toward melodrama). Not at all.
Worse, she’d enjoyed it. Her mind relived that heart-stopping moment in the carriage again and again. He’d been handsome, dressed to perfection, no plum half-moons beneath his intense eyes as he’d had that night in his study. And he’d been intent upon her, looking at her as though he longed to devour her, catching her in his seduction as easily as if she were a butterfly trapped in a net. One swift journey up her skirts, and she’d been done.
And Lord, the way he’d made her feel. It had been sinful for certain, but she’d never experienced anything like the molten heat and honey, the dizzying pleasure of his long fingers touching her very core as he watched, as he made her watch. He’d touched the part of her even she’d dared not touch. Now she wondered why, for it was clearly a most receptive and delightful place for such a thing.
Heaven have mercy on her, she’d only been alone in his presence twice, and the man had already made her as much a sybarite as he. A most disquieting realization. Perhaps something was wrong with her. She certainly felt out of sorts, as though her body were too heavy or her skin too tight, her thoughts all wound up inside like a ball of twine.
“Clara, dearest? Where is your mind?”
Clara jolted from her sinful musings, cheeks going hot before she could collect herself as she met her stepmother’s gaze. Ravenscroft was to call upon them today for tea. More flowers had arrived that morning, so sumptuous and lovely and dear that she was certain he couldn’t afford them. They’d been accompanied by a note with a single word.
Again.
Yes, that was precisely what ailed her—the portent of a lone, menacing, thrilling word. “Forgive me, Lady Bella. I was merely gathering wool.” She attempted a smile she didn’t feel. In truth, she simply wished to have done with this ridiculous courting nonsense Papa had devised. The sooner she could wed the earl, the sooner she could leave him and his troublesome hands, wicked mouth, and beautiful face behind.
“You were granted a reprieve yesterday,” her stepmother observed. “Have you not wondered if perhaps it was providential? You could still refuse him, deny him access to you, forget all about this madcap sense of romance you’ve allowed to rot your brain.”
Providential indeed, she thought weakly. “Not in the slightest, my lady. I’m committed to staying the course. Do you not love my father?”
Lady Bella’s expression softened, and somehow the effect rendered her even lovelier than she already was. “I love your father very much.”
“And what if someone had told you not to wed him? Would you have listened?” Clara knew another twinge of guilt for asking the question and using her stepmother’s weakness for her father against her. However, her cause needed all the help it could manage to swindle, borrow, or steal.
Lady Bella’s lashes swept down over her gaze. “Your father would not have allowed anyone to come between us. But what we share is rare, Clara. It’s a special bond, the sort that cannot be nurtured in a hasty courtship or a longing glance cast across a ballroom.”
Truly, did Lady Bella suppose Ravenscroft the sort of man who made eyes at a lady over the quadrille? She was about to answer when the earl himself was announced. Here was the man she couldn’t shake from her mind, and he was just a mortal after all, with hair that was a bit too pomaded this afternoon for her liking and a shade of stubble upon his jaw. While his wardrobe was perfection—tailored trousers and a gray waistcoat, all the mode—the darkness beneath his eyes had returned.
He bowed, and she had to admit that he cut a lean figure. Not at all the build one would have expected of a man given to indolence, womanizing, and drink. His hips were narrow, shoulders broad, and she spied not a hint of a paunch beneath his layers of fashionable clothing. He was an enigma, at turns precisely what she’d expected and then at other times quite the opposite.
“Lady Bella,” he greeted, the epitome of polite sophistication. His gaze lingered on Clara for a beat longer than necessary, and an unwanted surge of heat swept over her. “Miss Whitney.”
The tea was weaker than Clara preferred, though she didn’t particularly care for the English custom of teatime. The conversation was stilted in the extreme, steeped in Lady Bella’s obvious disapproval and displeasure. For his part, Ravenscroft either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He carried the conversation with his easy brand of charm. He knew how to banter, and he knew how to win over virtually any opponent.
“How are your sisters, Lord Ravenscroft?” Lady Bella asked, still cool though the earl had undeniably begun to thaw some of her ice. “You have two, yes? Lady Alexandra and Lady Josephine?”
He inclined his head. “You are, of course, correct as ever, my lady. Both are well, thank you, but perhaps a trifle in need of some sisterly guidance from a female. It’s my fervent hope that Miss Whitney might become dear friends with them.”
“I’m sure Miss Clara would enjoy such an arrangement, in the event of your marriage.” Lady Bella said the last as if it tasted bitter upon her tongue. As though their marriage were still a questionable matter.
Clara stared at the earl’s hands upon the fine china of his saucer. So large, those hands, holding such a delicate porcelain. He could easily crush it in his fist, but he was gentle, his long fingers curved over the handle as though it were a lover’s body. Pity that she’d never again be capable of looking upon his hands without recalling what they’d done to her.
“Clara, dearest?”
She blinked and forced her attention to her stepmother, who had apparently asked her a question. A question she hadn’t heard, mired in wicked thoughts about Ravenscroft’s hands, of all things. Not even his mouth, though another stolen peek confirmed it was equally as fine as she’d recalled, well-molded and sensual.
“I would dearly love a turn about the garden, Lady Bella,” she blurted, suddenly in need of air. Lots of air. “Forgive me, my lord. If you’ll excuse me?”
“I’ll escort you,” the earl offered, playing the role of the gallant knight all too well as he shot to his feet.
“My lord,” Lady Bella argued.
“We shall stay in view of the windows at all times, Lady Bella,” he countered. “I’ll not do Miss Whitney any harm, I swear. Not a hin
t of scandal.”
Her stepmother’s gaze was as sharp as a guillotine. “Ravenscroft, my husband will have your hide if you so much as touch her elbow inappropriately.”
The earl nodded, unperturbed. “I wouldn’t dream of molesting Miss Whitney’s elbow, I assure you.”
Such a droll wit, his lordship possessed. Clara repressed her smile. Lady Bella did not appear equally amused.
“I’ll be watching from the window, my lord.” Lady Bella’s tone was frigid. “Five minutes. No more.”
“Thank you, my lady, but fifteen would really be much more the thing.”
“Seven and a half, not a second past.”
“Ten,” he countered, “and a disappearance behind a tall, accommodating hedge.”
Clara couldn’t stifle her shocked laughter at his daring.
Her stepmother pinned her with a remonstrating glare before turning the full force of her disapproval upon the earl. “You think everything a lark, do you not, my lord? Eight minutes and absolutely no accommodating hedges to speak of. You’re fortunate indeed that I haven’t called for my husband to beat you to a pulp for your insouciance.”
“Ah, I suppose being a peer of the realm possesses its merits,” he said drily.
“Being a peer of the realm has nothing to do with it,” Lady Bella corrected. “Clara professes to care for you. And that, my lord, is your only saving grace.”
He smiled, but the effect did not reach his eyes. On the whole, it was a rather grim smile, harsh and unforgiving. “On that, my lady, we are agreed.”
A turn about the gardens for eight minutes with an overbearing stepmama watching from a window for the slightest misstep. Damnation, he supposed this was his punishment for toying with innocents. Or perhaps it was his very own form of Purgatory? One of Dante’s circles? Jesus, who knew.
The only fact Julian did know as he stood in the garden with Clara, her hand on his elbow—the better to avoid an improper touch, and all that—was that if he didn’t soon take her to bed, he’d go mad. How had he thought that touching her in his carriage was a good idea? How had he believed he could slide his hand beneath her skirts, experience the welcoming, wet heat of her, her newly awakened desire, and then ride home to his impudent sisters, threadbare home, dwindling cast of servants, and empty bed? How had he ever fancied he could carry out polite conversation before Lady Bella and not recall what Clara tasted like? Sunshine and honey and the earthy musk that was deliciously, innately hers.
Restless Rake Page 7