He had his hands around her waist, keeping her steady, for she had lost all sense of balance and was barely staying on her feet. As he swept his lips right up against the edge of her camisole, the tender flesh beneath seemed to become heated. The tips of her breasts tightened, almost as if they anticipated his touch.
Suddenly, she couldn’t wait for that. She realized she was thrusting herself toward him, urging him to continue. Her breath emerged in little exhalations.
Rhys gave a low chuckle. “I have no need to ask if you like that.”
“More than I suspected I would.” Her voice was as low as his. It sounded strained.
Rhys lifted her up off her feet and moved her over to the bed, displaying a strength she had not suspected of him. He laid her upon the covers and settled beside her. “Now you do not have to worry about staying on your feet,” he told her and rested his hand on her torso, the cotton of her camisole beneath his fingers. She could feel the heat from his hand against her flesh and it was as if little fingers of pleasure rippled out in ever widening circles from his hand, out to the extremities of her body.
If he would only sweep his hand upward, toward her breast. She did not know what he might do, but she was positive it would feel delightful. Her breasts ached to be touched.
He did not sweep his hand. Instead he lifted it and caught at the tiny pearl buttons on the camisole and flipped them undone with a twitch of his fingertips. They presented no challenge to him at all and the delicate cotton parted, only to catch on her upright, almost painful nipples.
Anna lay stiff with anticipation. She could guess what he would do next and her breath jammed in her throat as she waited for it. Longed for it.
He picked up the edges of the camisole one at a time and folded them aside, then looked down at her breasts in the moonlight.
Anna thought she might die of waiting for his touch. She felt no shame or embarrassment. There was no room for either of those emotions. Her whole body seemed to be caught up in this waiting need. Her privates were heated and throbbing and she found her hips rising by themselves, which made the throbbing worse.
Then Rhys did sweep his hand along her flesh and his fingers closed around one breast. The sensation was heavenly…but then he shifted his fingers, so that the tips toyed with her nipple. At the same time, he dipped his head and his lips closed around the other nipple.
Anna rolled back her head and cried out at the sheer pleasure that seemed to spark from her breasts and spear through her body.
Why, this was such an incredible sensation! Why did people not talk about it more? Why did they not crave it?
But then even that coherent thought scattered, as Rhys played with her breasts with his fingers and his mouth and the pleasure thickened, until she felt drugged with it. Her legs moved restlessly, her hips thrust upward of their own accord. She could scarcely breathe.
Then he smoothed his hand downward, abandoning one breast and she gave another choked cry as she realized the direction he intended to go. Yes, she said in her mind, understanding flooding her. This was the way of it. This was how it worked.
The base of his palm pressed into the soft flesh just below her ribs and above the belt that he was aiming for.
Pain flared and Anna tried desperately to smother the cry she made in reaction, but Rhys stiffened and grew still. He lifted his head. “That was not a sound of delight,” he said. “Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m fine. It’s all right. Please, don’t stop.”
She tried to reach for him, to encourage him, but he pulled back even farther and looked down at her. He wasn’t enjoying the sight of her. He was studying her.
Fright touched her, dispersing some of the aching want. She pulled the camisole together and tried to sit up, but he pushed back on her shoulder and slid the hem of it up, revealing the flesh once more. “What is that? I thought it was a shadow, but it doesn’t move when you do….”
“It’s nothing,” she said quickly.
Rhys sat up and turned to fumble at the table beside the bed. She heard the sound of a box sliding open, then the scape and flare of a match. The lamp caught aflame and warm orange light filled the little room.
Anna pushed herself up and swiftly fastened the camisole, as Rhys turned back to look at her.
“Let me see,” he said flatly.
She shook her head. “There is nothing to see, I assure you.”
“That was a cry of pain,” Rhys said roughly. “Let me see, Anna, or I will look for myself.”
She swallowed. She had no doubt he would do exactly what he said he would. Slowly, she lifted the camisole, revealing her side above the belted trousers.
He studied the flesh in the light from the lantern. “Bruises,” he said flatly. His gaze travelled over her. “And those are faded ones on your arms, too,” he decided. “Those have almost gone.”
“I fell off my horse,” she said. “I was foolish. The creek was far too wide and I rolled onto some rocks when I landed.”
“Then you must be an uncommonly bad rider who falls frequently, Anna. These bruises were not all acquired at the same time. Who did this to you?”
The fear had washed away all the delightful feelings he had created in her. She closed the camisole and buttoned it quickly. “No one,” she said firmly. “I told you, I fell.” She glanced out the window. “What time is it?” she asked. “My father and uncle will return home from Brook’s by nine o’clock and I must be back in my room before then.”
“Brook’s?” Rhys repeated, a faint note of alarm in his voice.
She looked up from the last button. “Yes. Why do you repeat it in that way?”
Rhys shot to his feet and bent and picked up her shirt. “Brooks was closed this morning due to a leak in the upper bathroom that flooded the top floor where all the card rooms are. I know, because I had been planning on going to the club myself tonight, until I heard from a client that they had shut their doors for the rest of the week.”
Anna pushed herself into her knees, horror flooding her. “You mean, my father never left the house?”
“He might have,” Rhys said. “The concierge was trying to reach as many members as possible to let them know, but it is a popular club. It is possible your father went there and then returned. What time does he usually leave for the club?”
“Six-thirty, every night he is not…ill.” She thrust her arm into the shirt. “Oh dear God, Rhys, he will kill me.” She began to fasten buttons.
Rhys reached for the lower buttons, helping her. Then he straightened her collar and whipped the cravat around it like a scarf. “I’ll tie it in the cab,” he said shortly. “Hurry. Pick up your waistcoat. I will get your coat.” He strode to the door and threw it open.
She scrambled off the bed, her body now thick with a fear so intense she felt ill with it. She couldn’t think past it. “Rhys?” she called as she hastily donned the waistcoat. The buttons were beyond the capabilities of her trembling fingers right now. She left it hanging open.
He hurried back into the room and held out her frockcoat, so she simply had to slide her arms into it and he settled it over her shoulders properly and turned her to face him. “Put up your hair. I do not have the first clue how to go about it. I’ll go down stairs and find a cab. They are rare on Duke Street at this time of night.”
He hesitated. She had the feeling that there was much more he would say if he had the time. Then he bent and picked up his own coat, turned on his heel and left, the coat swirling behind him as he threw it on as he went.
Anna tried to move swiftly, twisting her hair up into the habitual tight knot at the top of her head. She did this every morning, for her father thought it an unnecessary expense for Anna to have a lady’s maid, with her mother prostrate and uninterested in anything beyond her laudanum. Anna was well practiced in the art of an acceptably tidy bun, but now her fingers would not work properly. She tangled her hair into a nest of locks, held it down flat and pinned it as swift
ly as she could. Then she crammed the hat on over the top and ran for the door, her heart moving far faster than her feet.
* * * * *
Rhys spotted a cab at the far end of the street as the driver pulled it into the curb to drop off his passengers, possibly at the hotel there, which saw a steady stream of influential customers.
The cab was facing toward him and with luck, the driver would not attempt to turn his horses in this narrow way, but would come straight on and Rhys would be able to hail him. So he watched the passengers climb out with feminine dignity and slowness while the single male passenger stood and paid off the cabby.
Anna stepped out of the house, shut the door and hurried down the steps to where Rhys stood waiting on the edge of the footpath. He nodded toward the cab. “We’re in luck.”
“Rhys, perhaps you should let me go home alone,” she said, her voice low. She had shoved her hands into the pockets of her trousers, the coat thrust backward to accommodate the movement. It hid her feminine hands and looked quite natural. A small part of him admired her cleverness even as he worried through all the possible consequences of the situation. Then he shook his head. “I will see you home safely,” he told her.
“If you are seen with me, it will go badly for you,” she said, looking at him directly with her very blue eyes.
“Then I’ll make sure you’re not seen with undesirable company,” he said dryly.
She sighed. “That was not my meaning.”
“It is the way your family will see it,” he said, more gently. “I know my position all too well, Anna.”
The cab driver picked up his whip. Rhys whistled sharply, then raised his arm so the cabbie would see him. “I will see you home…or to within a dozen yards of your home, at least,” he said. “Do you have any invitations for tomorrow, Anna?”
She frowned. “Why on earth do you ask that?”
“Because wherever you are expected tomorrow, I will arrange an invitation and go there myself. I want to assure myself you make it back home safely.”
Her frown smoothed itself away. “Your sister. Lady Innesford. That is how you would arrange it. I see.” Then she frowned again.
Rhys remembered his own pile of correspondence sitting on the dining table in his rooms. “Are you attending supper at Lady Wandsworth’s tomorrow night?” he asked. “I have been invited to that.”
She nodded. “Yes, of course. I had forgotten.”
The cab pulled up next to them and staying in her role, Anna reached out for the door and held it open for him. Rhys found himself smiling as he gave the driver the Grosvenor Square address and climbed inside.
Anna settled next to him and shut the door as the cab jerked into motion.
Rhys kissed her briefly and saw her eyes widen. He made himself pull back and reach instead for the silk of her cravat and arranged it swiftly. He moved on to the waistcoat buttons, tugged the waistcoat into place and sat back. “You’ll be there tomorrow night?” he pressed.
Anna nodded. She did not speak. He didn’t know if that was because her light voice would be heard by the cabbie, who would remember such an unusual customer, or if she simply had nothing to say.
If that was indeed the way she felt, he well understood it. Already, he felt that what had happened between them was a risky mistake with a potentially dire outcome. He was glad that they had been disrupted from the natural path they had been following.
But even as he was grateful for the reprieve, his body tightened as he recalled the way she had moved against him. The soft, throaty cry she had given as he tasted her breasts. The feel of her smooth soft skin under his hand. His manhood was stiff and throbbing painfully, just from the recall. Princess Annalies was a packet full of surprises.
Now that the cab was on its way, he had a few minutes to think properly. Her bruises had been many, once he had noticed them. Most of them had been old and faded almost beyond sight, but the one over her hip had been extensive.
But there was something in the set of her mouth and the look in her eyes that told him she would not speak the truth about them. It was natural that a member of the royal family would be guarded about revealing too much about themselves. With her family fleeing a revolution in her father’s principality, it was likely she had seen violence and most certainly, she had been the recipient of the threat of violence at the very least.
It was little wonder Annalies had found a mental and physical escape wearing clothes that hid her identity and provided a freedom no other young maiden of good breeding got to enjoy. She had seen sights and learned facts about humanity that few debutantes ever learned in their entire life times and it had colored her outlook upon life in strange ways.
But the bruises, now…they were troubling. Had she received them while wandering the streets? That seemed the most likely explanation. She would be reluctant to admit as much, because he had lectured her about just this sort of danger.
And yet…and yet… Rhys shifted uneasily on the leather bench. His instincts said it was something else, something he had yet to learn about her.
He glanced at her. She sat in the other corner, her chin up, her gaze steadily forward. There was an iron backbone in her, possibly forged through the same troubles that had made her so different, or perhaps it was her natural character. But Rhys knew that no amount of probing or questions would convince her to speak the truth if she did not want to tell him.
Finally, he let out a sigh. It was her secret and she was right not to trust him yet. He could only see her home and tomorrow night assure himself that she had managed to return undetected.
Then, if they were both wise, they would go their separate ways and forget that this foolish evening had ever happened.
But thinking so was not believing so. Even as he made the promise to himself to stay out of the princess’ life, his body and his heart protested.
Chapter Six
The cab had barely rounded the corner and disappeared from view when the heavens opened up in one of London’s sudden downpours that soaked everything inside a heartbeat. Anna gasped and ran for the narrow alley six houses down, then hurried through it and around to the back of the big house her uncle had rented.
It was pitch black, the moon swallowed up by the cloud dropping the torrential rain. The rain stung her hands and face. The frockcoat grew heavier as it soaked up the water.
She found the big iron key in the overturned flowerpot, behind the gardener’s shed at the back of the yard, just where she had left it. Finding it undisturbed reassured her a little.
The drumming rain meant she didn’t have to worry so much about silently fitting and turning the key in the back door, for it was a rusty lock and always wanted to groan when she turned it, no matter how much cod liver oil she painted inside it with a goose feather.
She slipped into the servants’ quarters and stole over to the linen press, her clothes dripping on the tiles. She would have to wipe that up before going upstairs. Clearly, she could not leave the quarters with water running from her hems. She searched about the poorly-equipped linen press. For a house this size, the room should be stuffed full of toweling and bedding, but all she could find was a pair of thin blankets.
She dropped one blanket onto the floor to soak up the puddle around her, then stood upon it. Moving quickly, she stripped the sodden garments from her and dropped them at her feet in a growing pile. The wet clothing would not cooperate and she struggled to remove it, the seconds ticking off in her head.
Even her camisole and pantalets were damp, but she kept them on. Walking about the house in her undergarments was only slightly less shocking than walking about naked, but she would risk it.
The whole time she had been undressing, the floorboards overhead had been squeaking and moving under weight. The heavy tread couldn’t be any of the servants, for they lived in their own homes, all except the valet, Jones, who attended her uncle and father. Jones had a room at the back of the servant quarters, the biggest room there. The rest were em
pty. With the house in darkness like it was, it meant that Jones had already attended her uncle and father and had retired for the night. As her uncle was a thin man, it had to be her father making the boards moan as they were.
Anna wrapped the second blanket about her shoulders and gripped it tightly. She hurried to the servants’ staircase and began to climb, her damp feet silent on the stairs.
She nearly made it to the main staircase unnoticed. She had one foot on the bottom stair when her father bellowed behind her.
“Annalies, by God! Where have you been?”
He was speaking German, his voice thick with rage and underneath it, pain.
Anna turned slowly. “I heard your carriage return, Father. I was outside, taking in the air, but the rainstorm caught me.”
He stood just beyond the door into the study where he and her uncle spent so many hours closeted. His cheeks were ruddy above the full, silvery-white beard. So was his nose. His eyes, which were the same blue as hers, were bloodshot and narrowed suspiciously as he took in the blanket around her.
He took a step closer. “Where are your clothes, girl?”
Her heart sank. “They were wet. I left them in the servants’ quarters.”
“You would rather parade around the house like a whore instead of returning to your room like a decent woman and letting the maids take care of the matter?”
“The maids have all gone home for the evening,” she pointed out as reasonably as she could. She fumbled with her heel until she felt the front of the step behind her, then stepped up onto it as her father drew closer.
“In the morning! They can take care of them in the morning!” he screamed. Now he was close enough for her to smell the sweet waft of madeira on his breath. He had returned from the club and gone straight to the decanter in his study, no doubt annoyed that he could not drink with company at the club.
“Where is Uncle Rupert?” she asked. Sometimes her uncle could distract her father long enough to let her escape.
Perilous Princess: A Sexy Historical Romance Page 5