Happily Bedded Bliss: The Rakes of Cavendish Square

by Tracy Anne Warren

  He ought to have been thrilled, he knew. After all, a pleasant, nonconfrontational relationship with regular, satisfying sex was exactly what he’d wanted. It was the perfect marriage, offering companionship without all the messy emotional entanglements that led to dissatisfaction and disillusionment.

  So why did he mind that she no longer wanted to sleep in his arms?

  Why was it tearing at him that she had yet to tell him again that she loved him?

  Had he been right and her admission of love had been nothing more than naive infatuation? Or had she actually cared for him but he’d killed the nascent tendrils of her devotion when he’d deserted her?

  Whichever it was, he didn’t like it. No, he didn’t like it at all, although what he was going to do about it, he couldn’t yet decide.

  Tossing back the covers, he reached for his robe, then got out of bed.

  A fluffy white cat, whose name he thought was Mozart, of all things, sat in a chair, where the creature had obviously been watching him for some time.

  “How did you get in here?” he asked.

  The cat blinked his green eyes but made no reply.

  He walked closer, then reached out and gently scratched the top of the cat’s head. Mozart’s eyes slitted and he began to purr.

  “I’ll bet you could tell me what she’s thinking, especially since she lets you sleep with her.”

  Mozart purred louder.

  “Braggart.”

  Leaving the cat, Gabriel started toward his dressing room, then changed his mind. Moving instead to the connecting door between his room and Esme’s, he gave a quick rap and went inside.

  • • •

  Esme sat at the table that stood in front of her sitting room’s large window. Beyond, she had a lovely view of the snow-covered garden, where a stone fountain with its impish cupid was bedecked in white.

  Steam wafted from the cup of tea she’d just poured, one of the scones from the basket Paula had brought her sitting on a small blue-and-white china plate.

  She heard the knock and looked up. Her pulse gave a little hop as she watched Gabriel walk inside. He was still in his robe, his hair tousled from sleep.

  He looked mouthwateringly divine.

  This was the first time he’d joined her in her rooms for breakfast. Usually, he was up and out of the house before she awakened. But perhaps even Gabriel relaxed on Christmas Day. Then again, nearly everything was closed, so there wasn’t a great deal for him to do but stay abed and sleep late.

  “I thought I heard you up,” he said as he came forward and dropped into the chair opposite. “That looks good.” He nodded toward the scone.

  Without asking, she took another one out of the basket, set it on a plate and passed it to him. “Would you care for tea or shall I send down for coffee?”

  “Tea will do.”

  While she poured, he buttered the pastry and bit in, making a sound of pleasure low in his throat. “One of your cats is in my room,” he said conversationally.

  “Oh, do you want me to go in and get her?”

  Gabriel shook his head. “Him. And no, he’s fine, except for the cat fur. But I presume the maids will sweep it up.”

  “Yes, I am sure they shall.”

  Esme hid a quiet smile as she raised her teacup to her lips.

  Despite an occasional grumble from him about all the “furry interlopers in the house,” she could tell that Gabriel liked the dogs and cats. She’d caught him more than once petting one of them when he didn’t think anyone else was watching. And the dogs always raced to greet him when he’d been out and returned to Landsdowne House.

  “Happy Christmas, by the way,” she said quietly.

  “Oh. Right. Happy Christmas.”

  Then he went back to eating.

  She supposed, given what she’d learned, that Christmases hadn’t been very festive for him, not even as a child. She thought of her own childhood Christmases at Braebourne, how joyous and lively they had always been, the house filled to bursting with noise, laughter and frivolity.

  And family, of course. Lots and lots of family.

  She was missing everyone today but glad that she was here with Gabriel. Maybe, if he would let her, she could show him how very special the holiday could be.

  “So what shall we do today?” she asked in a bright voice.

  He paused midbite. “Do?”

  “Why, yes. I was thinking after church that we might take a ride in the park. Or I hear there is a holiday fair going on near the Thames. That might be entertaining.”

  “Yes, if you like having your pockets picked. Such events are notoriously riddled with thieves looking for a few unsuspecting pigeons to pluck.”

  She doubted any thief with an ounce of sense would come within ten feet of Gabriel, since he was one of the least “unsuspecting” individuals she had ever known. It would be rather like a mouse trying to get the better of a sharp-clawed cat.

  “Well, just the ride in the park, then.”

  “It’s too cold and slick. And it might snow again.”

  From the look of the near cloudless sky, she didn’t think so, but she decided not to argue.

  He drank the last of the tea in his cup. “As for church, I don’t attend and am not about to start. Considering my less than saintly behavior, I would probably be turned to ash the moment I set foot over the threshold.”

  “I rather doubt that,” she said with amusement. “And it’s not as if I attend regularly either, but Christmas service is always nice. Come with me. It will be fun.”

  “‘Fun’ and ‘church’ are not two words that I ever associate together.” With a shake of his head, he leaned back in his chair. “Forgive me, my dear, but you will have to count me out of that plan as well.”

  “What about playing some games, then?” she suggested. “I realize there are only the two of us, but speculation and charades are always amusing.”

  “You want me to play charades? Really, Esme?”

  She tossed up her hands and let out an exasperated huff of breath. “Fine, then what would you propose, since I can see there is no pleasing you today?”

  “Hmm, what to do?” he mused aloud. “I have an idea.”

  She tried her best not to be irritated. “Oh? And what might that be?”

  As she watched, a wicked glint sparked to life in his golden eyes, a familiar look that could signal only one thing.

  “Oh no.” She shook her head and started to get up from her chair. “We are not doing that right now.”

  Reaching out, he caught hold of her wrist and pulled her toward him. “Doing what?”

  “You know what. Now, behave.”

  “I am behaving, exactly like I always do.”

  “Gabriel, it’s Christmas Day.”

  “Yes, it is, and I want to open my present.”

  Before she had any further chance to react, he pulled her onto his lap and began plundering her mouth, leading her into a dance that was dark and feverish with passion.

  She didn’t protest, never able to resist him once he’d laid his hands on her. She should curse herself for being so weak, she supposed, but how could she when his touch was always so sublime? And when he was the only man she knew she would ever want.

  Tunneling her fingers into his hair, she kissed him back, circling her tongue around his in a wet, silken slide. He groaned and palmed one of her breasts through her nightgown, pushing her robe off so it dropped to the floor. He arched her over his arm, then broke off their kiss so he could suckle her breasts, not bothering to take off the gown but finding her through the material.

  She grew wet, and not just where his mouth was on her breasts. Restlessly, she shifted her legs and cupped his head to press him nearer. He hummed low in his throat and teased her with his teeth in ways that made her shudder.

 
Suddenly, he stopped and stood her on her feet. Her knees were pleasurably wobbly. She expected him to take her to bed, but he shoved the dishes aside instead and lifted her up on the table. He pushed her nightgown up to her waist, then sat back down in his chair.

  “Spread your legs,” he said.

  “Gabriel, maybe we should—”

  “Spread them.”

  An anticipatory shiver went through her, and she parted her legs.

  “Wider.”

  She opened them more, exposing her inner flesh to the cool air of the room.

  “Good girl.”

  He reached behind her and she heard the china rattle.

  What is he doing?

  To her astonishment, she saw that he was holding the jam pot. Her eyes widened as he dipped two fingers in and scooped out some of the thick sugary jelly.

  It glistened, red and viscous.

  “What are you— Oh my God,” she cried, her delicate flesh contracting as he began to smear the sticky confection over her nether lips.

  She shuddered, then shuddered again as he used his fingers to paint her with a slow, thorough attentiveness, pausing to scoop out more of the jam so that she was slick and sticky. Her breasts ached, tips puckering, blood beating in wild strokes as he teased her slit from base to top in a way that was nothing short of torture.

  Then he set the jam pot aside.

  Meeting and holding her gaze, he sucked the jam off his fingers, first one, then the next, sucking slowly as he laved them clean. “Hmm, red currant. My favorite.”

  Slipping his hands under her thighs, he angled them even wider and buried his head in between.

  She peaked almost instantly, her need already so great that his first few licks were enough to send her over the edge. Crying out, she dug her fingers into the table linens, barely caring when she heard some of the dishware tumble off onto the floor.

  But he wasn’t done. Instead, he was only just beginning, licking and lapping and nipping and suckling as though determined to cleanse every last bit of stickiness from her. She closed her eyes, her hips arching instinctively as he built her hunger again, until she thought she might go mad. She grew wet, then wetter still, but he swallowed every drop with unbridled greed, as if he couldn’t get enough.

  She climaxed powerfully, screaming as the bliss hit her. Pleasure unfurled, searing her from the inside out, as her mind went blank.

  Before she had time to recover even a little, he scooped her up into his arms. Her body hung limp as he carried her in several quick strides to his bedroom, Mozart running out on hurried feet.

  Gabriel shut the door.

  Laying her on the bed, he stripped her bare, then did the same for himself, flinging their clothes onto the floor. Setting a knee onto the mattress, he moved over her, pausing only long enough to nudge her thighs apart before he thrust hard and deep inside her.

  He captured her wrists and pulled her arms over her head, so that she was pinned beneath him, completely taken. He pressed his mouth to hers, then along the column of her throat. “Tell me again what you said that last night,” he murmured, moving to catch her earlobe between his teeth.

  “What night?” she asked, lost in a sea of pleasure. “What do you mean?”

  “That night at Ten Elms before I left.” He grazed the other side of her jaw, feathering kisses at random. “You said something to me, or don’t you remember?”

  Her eyes went wide, meeting his own as he raised his head. And she could tell, there in the bright light of day, that he could see she understood. That she did indeed remember the words.

  I love you.

  When she didn’t speak, he plundered her lips, taking her mouth with an unexpected kind of demand. “Tell me. Say it again.”

  “Gabriel.”

  Easing partially out of her, he thrust again, stealing her breath, possessing more than her body alone. “Say it,” he urged.

  But she couldn’t, even though she felt the emotion in every cell of her body.

  “Why?” she whispered.

  “Because I want to hear the words on your lips again. Tell me you love me, Esme. Say it.”

  He pumped inside her again, gaining another inch, then another, building her need higher with each new touch, every kiss and caress, until she was aching and near desperation, coiled on a razor’s edge of desire.

  “Tell me.” He circled his hips and rubbed the ultra-sensitive tips of her breasts against his chest with a sensual skill that made her quake. Yet just when she thought she would claim her release, he denied her, letting her know he was the one in control.

  “I have to know,” he said again. “Do you love me?”

  His fingers intertwined with her own, their hands held tightly together as he stroked her passion another degree higher, then another, tormenting her with a promised ecstasy only he could provide.

  And suddenly she broke.

  “Yes,” she cried, the words wrung from her throat. “Yes, I love you. Love you.”

  And he smiled.

  Then he was kissing her wildly and thrusting inside her with a need he could not contain.

  She arched, her heels digging into the mattress, her hands gripping his own as if he were a lifeline. Abruptly she peaked and joy crashed through her, spinning her in dizzying circles until she didn’t know where her body ended and heaven began.

  He claimed his own release almost immediately after, his hips moving fast and sure, teeth clenched as he climaxed forcefully inside her, so powerfully she felt the warmth of him in her womb.

  They lay together for a long while after, neither of them moving or speaking. Lazily, he rolled onto his back, careful to keep them joined as he cupped a palm over her bare bottom to hold her tight.

  She floated, not knowing what to say, not sure if she understood what he wanted from her, now that he’d made her confess her love for him again. Yet he still had not said the words back.

  Suddenly, she wondered if he ever would.

  But when she raised her head, she saw a happy gleam in his tawny eyes that she’d never seen before, something she sensed was from more than just sex.

  At least she hoped it was.

  He kissed her slowly, threading his fingers into her hair. “Now, admit it. Wasn’t this better than going to church?”

  Her eyes widened at his unrepentant blasphemy; then she laughed. “Maybe you would have been turned to ash had we gone to service, since you are a wicked, wicked man.”

  A wide grin spread over his face. “Indeed, I am, my dear, but you love me anyway. Isn’t that right?”

  Her own smile faded. “Yes, I do.”

  Even if I shouldn’t.

  Even if you will one day break my heart.

  • • •

  The remainder of the day stretched out at a leisurely pace. After lingering in bed for a while more, they rose and took a bath together, which led to another vigorous round of lovemaking that left the floor of the bathing chamber slick with soapy water.

  Rather than calling for her maid, Gabriel helped her dress in a simple, yet pretty gown made of green velveteen. She brushed her long sable hair and was about to twist it up to pin it atop her head when he stopped her. “Leave it down today,” he urged, leaning down to kiss the sensitive nape of her neck.

  She hesitated, since ladies of good standing did not leave their hair down in public. But as she and Gabriel were not receiving callers today, and the rest of her family was at Braebourne, she didn’t see how it could hurt.

  Locating a pretty red ribbon, she tied it back, allowing the loose waves to trail down her back nearly to her hips.

  They ate dinner in the dining room, seated next to each other rather than at opposite ends of the long, festively decorated table. Great silver epergnes arranged with red-tipped holly, orange bittersweet and brown pinecones perfumed the air, while
equally fragrant beeswax candles provided the illumination.

  The chef outdid himself, as one delectable dish after another was brought up from the kitchens. For Gabriel, there was a succulent roast goose with figs and a tender glazed ham, while she dined on a pair of clever cheese dishes, one made with cream and potatoes and another from Italy that combined cheese-filled flat noodles smothered with a wonderful rosemary butter sauce.

  Accompanying all of that was a plentiful array of vegetables, spiced and stewed fruits and freshly baked breads with creamy butter. And for dessert, there was a flaming plum pudding with a cognac whipped cream so strong it threatened to leave her tipsy.

  Presents were handed out to the servants, who would have the following day off from work for Boxing Day; then she and Gabriel returned upstairs to her sitting room again, where they would exchange presents of their own.

  He surprised her with an exquisitely fashioned painter’s easel made of polished mahogany and a leather case filled with tiny jars of ground pigment that she would be able to use for oil painting. She marveled at them, lifting the glass jars up to the candlelight, the colors reflecting like a rainbow.

  She tossed her arms around his neck and kissed him enthusiastically. “Thank you.”

  “If I’d known this would be the response, I would have bought you art supplies weeks ago.” Laughing, he kissed her back until she pulled away to remind him that he had yet to open his own present.

  “It’s not much,” she said, fingers woven together in her lap as she watched him tug the ribbon free of the box in his hands. “But I hope you like it.”

  He gave her a little smile, then took off the lid.

  For several long moments, he said nothing, just sat gazing into the box. She worried her lower lip between her teeth, wondering if she’d misjudged.

  “When did you get this?” he asked, his voice thick and unusually deep.

  “In Cornwall, that day we went to Truro. The merchant assured me that it is genuine Cornish silver, which he says is quite rare now, since the last silver mines there closed decades ago.” She paused, wondering again what he was thinking. “I’m sure you already have a timepiece, likely far more modern and better made than this one, but I’d seen you admiring it so I thought it might be something you would enjoy.”