“Eh. Not every human has a good heart. In fact, most of them are deuced bad.” He shrugged, then held up his gloveless hands for her inspection, flexing his fingers to show knuckles which were bruised and split. “But you needn’t fear. The other lads had a worse time of it. I assure you of that.”
“Fisticuffs?” Her ire returned. “That is what kept you away for three days?”
“That and rats. The kind with a tail and the kind without.” His tone was smooth and calm, as if doing violence to others was a small matter.
Perhaps to him, it was.
She shivered. Rafe Sutton was a dangerous man.
“Cold?” He rubbed her upper arms as if to warm her. “Shall I stoke the fire?”
But how was it that she felt safe with him, despite everything she knew and all the warnings crowding her mind?
Because he is a good man. Because he is one of the few humans in possession of a good heart.
“Y-yes,” she said, stepping away from him as she stammered over her words.
She was awash with confusion, longing, and something stronger. Something that felt a whole lot like…
Love.
Rafe moved away from her, prowling to the other end of the chamber where the fire had indeed begun to die. She watched as he built the flames with easy, methodical motions. Those hands were capable of so many deeds. Good and bad. They had touched her with gentle reverence. And they had also pummeled someone.
Someone deserving, as Lord Gregson had been?
“Rats, you said,” she reminded him, crossing the room to avoid raising her voice too loudly. “What did you mean by that?”
Rafe was kneeling by the hearth, still tending to the fire. She tried not to notice the way his trousers clung to his well-muscled thighs, or the suggestion of his bottom beneath the tail of his dark wool coat.
He glanced over his shoulder at her, so rakishly handsome, he stole her breath. “We’ve some mace coves giving us trouble at The Sinner’s Palace. One of them managed to set more than a dozen rats loose inside the kitchens. They also stole some of our best bleeding booze. It had to be answered.”
“With fists?” she asked.
He raised a brow. “Sometimes that’s the only way, a good, sound drubbing.”
His world was so very different from hers. Or, at least, from the one she had formerly inhabited, what seemed a lifetime ago.
She nodded. “I see.”
He turned back to the fire, finishing tending to it. The flames were hot and high now, casting off so much warmth that it suffused her face. Then again, perhaps that was just her body’s reaction to Rafe’s proximity.
When he rose to his full height and turned back to her, she had to clench her fists in the skirt of her gown to keep from reaching for him.
“Warmer now?” he asked.
Too warm. And most definitely not all from the fire.
“Yes.” She summoned a smile. “Thank you. Did you slip into my room merely to tend to the fire for me?”
“Of course.” He offered her the same courtly bow he had given in the gardens when he had tricked Anne and Elizabeth into proving their running prowess so he could speak with her alone. “Ever at your service, milady.”
When Rafe chose to charm, he was magnetic. And like before, she found herself drawn to him. Moving nearer so that she might catch a hint of his scent. To her shame, she had been seeking it in the cravat he had left the morning after she had slipped the laudanum into his brandy. It remained hidden beneath her pillow, more treasured now than it had been that first day. The scrap of linen was the only bit of him that could truly be hers, and she had no intention of parting with it.
“Why have you come here this evening?” she asked him.
He raised a brow, magnificently rakish. “I am spending the night while I tend to The Sinner’s Palace II on the morrow.”
“I meant to my room,” she corrected softly.
“Am I not welcome here?” As he posed the question, he reached out, guiding an errant curl from her cheek and tucking it beneath the mobcap she still wore. “Not another of these wretched things. Why do you hide your glory?”
“For ease and propriety,” she told him simply. An easy answer. But also, being noticed was not the role of the governess. “And you must know you are welcome, although I ought to be made of sterner stuff.”
“I’ll admit to being glad you aren’t.” His grin was in full force now, those maddening dimples appearing. “But may I?”
He gestured to her cap, which was so much a part of Miss Persephone Wren that she often forgot to remove it.
“If you must.”
He had scarcely waited for her response before he plucked the cap from her head. With a teasing air that was at odds with the evidence he had recently given his enemies a drubbing, as he had called it, he made as if to toss it into the fire he had just stoked. With a squeal of horror, she leapt toward the cap, trying to snag it from his fingers and save it from peril.
But he held it out of reach, and instead, the action merely brought her firmly against his chest. His free arm banded around her waist, anchoring her to him. The rise of him, firm and pronounced, made her hotter still. The ache that had never seemed to completely subside since the night she had spent in his bed blossomed into a throb.
Her hands came to rest on his shoulders, absorbing his easy strength. “You still owe me a mobcap from the last one you burned.”
His grin fading, he tossed the most recently confiscated cap over his shoulder instead of consigning it to the flames. “I’ve a confession to make. I didn’t burn your other cap.”
“You didn’t?”
He shook his head slowly, laying the backs of his fingers against her cheek and stroking gently. “No. I kept it. I rather fancy having a part of you for my own, even if it is that hideous little cap you use to hide your beautiful hair from the world.”
She swallowed against a rush of emotion. What could she say? That she had done the same thing with his cravat? Such an admission would cost her too much. She was lying to this man, and she must not forget it.
“You ought to give it back,” she said without any sting.
In truth, she adored the notion of this strong, dangerous man keeping her mobcap simply because it was hers.
“But if I can’t have you, then the ugly cap is second best.” His hand slid around her neck to her nape.
She leaned her head into his touch. “Perhaps you could have me for a time.”
“The trouble is, a time ain’t long enough, lovely.” He regarded her solemnly.
What was he trying to tell her? And why did his words make her heart hurt as if barbs had been sunk into that tender organ?
“Stolen moments are all we can have,” she told him as much as she warned herself.
It would not do to allow herself to grow any more attached to him. The bonds which had been forged would necessarily have to sever. The battle she would need to wage against Cousin Bartholomew when she reached her birthday would require all her efforts, persistence, and determination. But more than that, she heartily doubted a man like Rafe Sutton would forgive her for lying to him.
How can a lie of omission truly harm him?
She silenced the voice within, for it wanted too much. The last few years had taught her all too well that she could never have more, that she was fortunate indeed to have carved out her little place in the world where she could bide her time until she reached five-and-twenty.
“I’m greedy where you’re concerned,” Rafe told her, his gaze traveling over her face as if it were a wonder to him.
No one had ever looked at her thus, and it chipped away at her resolve as surely as a chisel. “You never answered me, Rafe. Why have you come to my room?”
He leaned his forehead to hers. “Because I cannot stay away from you. Regardless of how many times I tell myself I ain’t the sort of chap for a lady like you, as soon as I’m beneath this bleeding roof, I’m drawn to wherever you are.”
&n
bsp; The wall of her defenses had been reduced to rubble. Her desire rose, stronger than her fear of being caught, more consuming than the need to maintain her lies and her position as the governess to Anne and Elizabeth. Here, in this room, she was his and he was hers.
She might pretend for a little while longer that what they shared never needed to have an end. That forever was possible. That she loved him and he loved her.
“Rafe,” she said, but then the profundity of her emotions overwhelmed her, stealing her capacity for further speech.
Instead, she rose that scant two inches, all she required to be the same height as him, and pressed her mouth to his. It seemed she was always the first to kiss, and she was not certain whether it was by design. Perhaps he was giving her the control in much the same way he had when he had pleasured her. Or mayhap her want was the strongest, the most demanding.
She did not care if it was.
All she did care about was that he was kissing her in return. On a low growl, he cupped her face and held her still while he ravished her mouth with the hungriest kiss yet. He kissed her as if they had been separated for a decade rather than three days. Lips angling over hers, tongue sliding hot and wet to plunder. She made a low sound of her own, desire snaking through her as she sank her fingernails into his shoulders and held on tightly.
Letting him go was no longer a choice. He was a necessity to her. His presence, his warmth, his strength, his kiss. Had she thought the last time would be enough? That she would be satisfied with one night in his arms?
One would never be enough, for she felt every bit as greedy as he had claimed to be. She wanted more. Everything he had to give.
He kissed her harder, exploring, it seemed, every part of her as his tongue swept over hers, tracing her teeth, sinking deep, stroking even the insides of her cheeks. His fingers were in her hair now, the telltale sound of hair pins raining to the carpets, her curls coming unbound to fall down her back.
She did not care.
As if he had helped her dress that morning, he knew where to find all her tapes and ties and buttons. His hands caressed everywhere they traveled, divesting her of each layer with measured motions that were somehow smooth and frantic all at once. Her sensible gown fell away, and with it, all the reasons why she should not be alone with Rafe Sutton in her room. So, too, the reasons why she must not risk everything she had spent all the years of hiding working toward.
She wanted him. He was here. Noting else mattered tonight. The misery of the last three days without him was forgotten as well. But it was hardly fair that he retained his garments while she was so quickly losing hers. Her fingers moved of their own volition, sliding buttons from their moorings. Untying knots. His coat and cravat were gone before their lips ever even parted.
He was first to break the kiss, lifting his head, his breaths gratifyingly ragged. “I told myself I wouldn’t do this. All I wanted was to see you.”
She understood he was at war with himself, for it was no different for her. “Seeing is not enough, is it?”
“Damn it.” He closed his eyes, his hands tense on her waist, neither pushing her away nor holding her close as he struggled, before opening them on a sigh. “It has to be enough. Christ, what a beast I am. I’ve already stripped away your bleeding gown.”
She wanted him to strip away the rest. Now that he was here, how could she let him go?
“Stay with me,” she said, softly, beseeching him with her eyes. “Please, Rafe. I…I missed you.”
It was the closest she dared allow herself to get to a declaration.
And it was everything he needed. In the next breath, his mouth was on hers, fiery and insistent. More garments were shed. Petticoats and stays disappeared. His waistcoat and shirt had been shucked as well.
Still kissing, they moved to her small bed. He lifted his head, gazing down at her with so much fiery passion, her knees went weak.
“What is it that you want, lovely?” he rasped, his voice low and rough with desire. “Tell me. I need to know, to hear the words from your sweet lips.”
Persephone did not hesitate. “You, Rafe. You are what I want.”
“But you’re an innocent,” he protested, his countenance torn. “You can’t mean—”
“I can,” she interrupted, rising on her toes to press a swift kiss to his lips, silencing his objections. “I do. I know what I want, and it’s you.”
Even if this truly was the last time they could be together thus, she wanted to know what it felt like to be loved by him completely.
“Ah, God, you tempt me, woman.”
“Take me,” she said. “I am yours.”
“Mine.” His voice was low and deep, an answering spark lighting in his hazel eyes as he said the word.
“Yours.”
If only for tonight.
Hands once more firmly on her waist, he guided her bottom to the edge of the bed, then urged her to sit. As he sank to his knees before her, his hands went beneath the hem of her shift, gliding up her calves. Fire followed in his wake, past her knees, where he lingered for a moment, before moving to her garters. These he untied and removed with unhurried motions before rolling down her stockings and removing them.
She sat with her hands folded in her lap, thinking how astounding it was to be here with him, so free. He was bare-chested as she had only seen him once before, and on that occasion, she had been too tangled up in knots over having poured too much of the laudanum in his brandy and fretting over what would happen when he woke in the morning. She took a moment to admire him, all muscle and sinew, the light dusting of golden hair on his chest, the broadness of his shoulders, the protrusion of his clavicle.
“Damnation, lovely, even your bleeding dew beaters are perfection.”
“Dew beaters?” She watched in rapt fascination as he laid her stockings and garters on a neat pile before returning his attention to her limbs.
“Your feet,” he explained. From beneath lowered lashes, he glanced up at her, flashing the devil’s own grin. And his dimples! Lord in heaven, those dimples had appeared once more. “Yours are as beautiful as the rest of you. I should’ve known.”
She felt strangely shy beneath his avid regard. Persephone had never taken particular note of her feet before. “You need not seduce me with flowery compliments now. I know I am not a beauty.”
“Ah, but there you are wrong, sweeting.” He caught her right foot in both his hands, gently kneading and massaging her sole. “There are few things lower than a liar, and I ain’t one of those. If Rafe Sutton calls you beautiful, you’re beautiful.”
Few things lower than a liar…
She did not want to hear those words. Nor did she wish to think about the lies she had been telling. She had deceived everyone she knew for the last seven years. Strangely, her duplicities had never bothered her before in the way they did now. Lying had been a necessity. It still was. However, for the first time, she truly cared about the family with which she had been placed.
Especially this man.
I love him.
Astonishing thought, creeping into her mind. She’d had it before, but it was as if this moment, this connection with him, granted credence to the emotion in a new way. Rendering it permanent. Real. Undeniable.
She wanted to throw herself at him, kiss him everywhere, show him with her actions how she felt within. And yet, all the rules her joyless governesses had foisted upon her kept her from doing so.
“I am not beautiful, though I thank you for saying so,” she said at last, tamping down the ferocious rush of feelings, so new, so queer, so necessary, rising up like the burst of a tiny seedling shooting through the soil in spring.
“You are.” He brought her foot to his mouth, bestowing a kiss upon her instep.
“My hair is a dreadful shade of orange,” she argued breathlessly as his lips found a sensitive patch of skin on her ankle she had never previously known existed.
Cousin Bartholomew had commented upon the unfortunate coloration
, as he had called it, which she had received from her mother, whom she had never met. A true Calcot would never be so distressingly bold, he had commented once. Perhaps your mother made a cuckold of your father. I suppose we shall never know for certain.
Ruthlessly, she tamped down all thoughts of him. Banished his words. In a perfect world, there would be no Cousin Bartholomew, no impediments, no worries or fears or lies. But the world was far from perfect, as was she.
“Your hair is the color of the sunset at its most glorious,” Rafe told her solemnly.
He kissed a trail over her shin bone.
She shivered, but not from cold. “I have spots on my nose.”
“Copper flecks that mesmerize me.” He kissed her inner knees, first one, and then the other.
Oh, his words. They sank directly into her heart, weighing it down like stones.
She struggled to sort her thoughts, find more faults. Heaven knew, her looking glass had always held many. “I am far too tall for a lady.”
“You are the perfect height for me.” Rafe dragged the hem of her shift higher, until the linen pooled in her lap.
The raiment was thin and smooth from many launderings. A governess could not afford the number of garments a lady could. Not by far. And that was what she was now. A governess. Nothing more, nothing less.
His hands were on her outer thighs, stroking and inciting a new world of sensations. Had she been listing her complaints about her appearance? She quite forgot to recall any others when his hot, hazel gaze met hers.
“I want my mouth on you,” he said, his voice rough with desire. “Do you want that, love?”
She licked her lips. “Yes.”
Oh yes. Please.
For the last three nights, she had been alone in her bed, dreaming of how it had felt to have his mouth on her. Wondering if she would ever see him again. And now, he was here. On his knees before her, not taking as every man she had ever known had tried to do.
But asking.
Requiring her permission.
She could have wept at the realization, but the roiling emotion inside her gave way to pleasure when he guided her legs apart and his head dipped. His mouth unerringly found her center, sucking on the sensitive part of her. Her pearl, he had said. Finally, a name for the place where her pleasure seemed to dwell, brought to life by him.
Sutton’s Sins: The Sinful Suttons Book 2 Page 13