No doubt, his evening would involve a woman. Minerva wanted to stick out a foot and trip him. Not so he’d seriously injure himself, but enough to lay him up for a day or two. She didn’t, of course.
Simon waited in the entry hall, impatiently rocking from foot to foot, looking like a little boy going on his first picnic. Minerva had no desire to wish them well in their depraved endeavors. Perhaps a carriage wheel would break or a horse would go lame.
“What are your plans?” Rafe asked, taking an elegant beaver hat from Bertie.
“I was invited to an exclusive ball, but I sent my regrets. I’d rather clean and sort the rest of the books.” She forced a light tone. He twirled his hat in his hands, half smiling at her weak jest and side-eyeing her.
“Help yourself to anything in the study.” Now his gaze focused on the floor, and he bit at his lower lip as if there was something more he wished to say. “Good evening, then.” He ducked out the door, and all she could do was watch him go to another woman’s bed.
Minerva was mad and hurt and maybe even a little jealous. She trailed into the study on heavy feet, threw herself in the chair behind his desk and propped her chin on her fist. Heaving a sigh, she flipped through some of the papers that littered the desk. The business language and columns of numbers usually excited her. Not tonight. Tonight, she found it dry and dreary.
Her gaze fell on his sideboard, and the full decanter of brandy. He did say that she could help herself to anything in the study. The night of the attack, one little glass had afforded her a welcome numbing comfort.
She had never allowed herself more than one glass of champagne in London. There were too many dangers lurking for an available woman with a large dowry. Too many reasons to keep her guard up. Not tonight, though. Rafe was gone, and she would be alone. All night long.
Another painful stab to her gut. Why should she even care? So she dreamed of his two kisses every night. He was a man of the world who’d lain with countless other women. She was inexperienced, not naïve. He probably planned to kiss a dozen before settling on one to take to bed. She blinked furiously, absolutely refusing to cry over the man.
Instead, she marched over to the sideboard and poured herself a small amount of brandy. Tilting her head and pursing her lips, she decisively splashed another finger on top of the first. After sending a toast to the heavens, she took a large swallow.
She slammed the glass down on the sideboard and clutched at her throat, doubling over with coughing spasms. After what seemed an eternity, she straightened and wiped her watering eyes. A smaller, more-measured sip followed the first. This one slid down easily enough, the trail having already been blazed by her absurdly large gulp. A soothing warmth spread in her belly.
Minerva snuggled in Rafe’s huge armchair, nosing the leather to catch his scent. Blast him, why did he have to smell so divine? Her next swallow of brandy went down like water and sent the blessed warmth to her toes. Kicking off her slippers, she rolled off her stockings and rubbed her feet on the rug, scrunching her toes in the soft pile.
What kind of woman would catch his eye? A dark haired beauty with big breasts? A plump, curvy blonde with bouncing curls? Her hand tightened on the glass, and she raised it for another swig.
The brandy made her light-headed. Not in a bad way, but in a way that made her feel audacious. Her glass emptied quickly, and she returned to the sideboard to pour another. She didn’t need a man. She had survived—no, she had bloody well thrived the past few years on her own. She did a duke’s job and did it well. Men wanted her and women emulated her. While mayhap not beloved by the ton, she commanded respect.
She sat with her legs splayed wide, her feet bare, in a dress that was too short. Dirty, dusty and disheveled, she doubled over with laughter. What would the high-fliers of London Society say if they could see her now? She didn’t care. Is this how men felt when they drank? Was this freedom? Because she rather liked it.
She cracked open a window and unbuttoned the collar of her dress, the cool night air tickling her skin. Resting her head against the sill, she closed her eyes, her ears filled with a nightingale’s song in rustling leaves. Unbelievably, if the clock could be trusted, several hours had passed.
What was Rafe doing now? She took another swallow.
No, it didn’t matter. She was fine. No, more than fine, she was damn near splendid.
Had he picked a woman out? Would he carry her to a bed or rut in the hallway?
One more tot would surely dam off her tears. She tilted the heavy decanter, getting most of the brandy into the glass, and sopped up her spill with the folds of her dress. She weaved her way back to his armchair and stared at the licking flames in the grate. Her existence had taken on a dimorphous quality, and she floated between the worlds. The quiet night settled over her. Perhaps she drifted off, perhaps not.
The study door swung on its hinges. The shock brought her to her senses in an instant of clarity. She popped out of his chair. Rafe Drummond stopped short, halfway to his desk.
His shirt was open and his cravat was hanging around his neck, untied. His jacket had been discarded at some point and his waistcoat was unbuttoned. His hair brushed his neck, the thong holding it back gone, lost in some whore’s bed, no doubt.
The brandy had obliterated her careful barriers and filters. A fury welled up from her belly, extending to her toes and fingertips until she felt on fire.
“Did you have a pleasant evening, Raphael?” Infused with scorn, her tone made him feel like a schoolboy caught putting frogs in her bed.
“No one calls me that,” he said automatically, taken aback to find Minerva still in his study. A quick check put the time after two in the morning.
“Oh, really, Raphael? Don’t you like your name?” She practically sneered.
Not sure of her game, he kept his tone even. “Not particularly. Do you want to know what happened to the last person to call me by my given name?”
“What? Did you kill them?”
Rafe jerked his head back, shocked at the vehemence in her voice. “Hardly. It was Gray, and we were eight. I bloodied his lip.”
“What are you going to do to me, Raphael? Are you going to hurt me?” Minerva weaved over to him, pulled his cravat from around his neck and threw it at his feet.
“You should be abed.” He ignored her barb.
“Did you find a woman to meet your needs tonight, my lord?”
“There were many beautiful women there tonight.”
“So it was difficult to pick only one whore for your entertainment?”
What in the bloody hell was going on? Why was Minerva spitting daggers and talking about whores? He’d stepped into a farce without being given a script.
“Quite difficult, my lady. Who knew they would all be fighting over me?” His tone was light and joking, but Minerva didn’t take it as such.
She turned up her nose and examined him from head to toe. “You bloody, no-good bastard. Why do you have to be so disgustingly…” Minerva paused as if searching for the right epitaph. She rubbed a hand over her forehead.
Rafe froze and waited for the stab of her words. So disgustingly…ugly? Grotesque? Hideous?
Minerva snapped her fingers. “Masculine. I mean look at you with your bulging muscles and chest and your hands… Dear God, your hands.”
“My hands? What about them?” Rafe’s voice was scratchy.
She strode forward two paces, pulled back her fist and let it fly toward his face, catching him on his heels. When her hand was a hair’s breadth away from causing considerable pain, he caught her wrist. He twisted her arm around her back and hauled her against his chest.
Catching a whiff, he startled and looked over at his formerly full brandy decanter. She smelled as if she’d taken a bath in the stuff. “Minerva Bellingham, you’re utterly and completely foxed.”
Laughter threatened to
overtake him, but her eyes were bright with unshed tears. She would never forgive him if he laughed. Christ, she looked bedraggled. Her hair was coming free of its braid and tendrils framed her flushed, smudged face. The only redeeming feature about her horrid dress was the fact she’d partially unbuttoned it so he could see the top swells of her breasts.
And, dammit if she wasn’t more beautiful and alluring than all the women combined that evening.
Why was she so angry? Did she actually believe women threw themselves in his path? Most avoided catching his eye. Could she possibly be jealous? The thought gave Rafe pause. Afraid of the answer, he swallowed through his constricted throat and asked haltingly, “Do you not want me with other women?”
“Of course I don’t want you with other women, you blithering idiot. I want you to make love to me.” Minerva stamped directly on his instep.
Ignoring the pain in his foot and the fact she had called him an idiot, he focused only on the important. “You want me to make love to you?”
“I want you to touch me and kiss me, not some two-bit cheap whore. I’ve been right here in front of you. Why don’t you want me?” A tear escaped its confinement to trail down her cheek.
“Minerva, you’re a lady. An innocent. I can’t—we can’t—” He caught the tear on her cheekbone with his thumb. His heart thumped so loudly, surely she could hear it.
“What was she like? Did she satisfy you? I would gladly scratch her eyes out. Pull every hair from her head.” Her wet eyes flashed with heat, and she hit his chest with a balled-up fist, weakly this time.
“Would it make you less murderous to learn there were no other women tonight?”
“No other women?” She choked back a sob.
“I sat in a corner observing Simon try his luck with both women and cards. He was more successful with the women than the cards, not surprisingly. I played a few hands, but the company was bland. When I couldn’t handle babysitting your whelp of a brother any longer, I hauled him into the carriage to come home.”
His original intentions had been a bit murkier. He had gone in search of a woman, any woman to relieve his physical torment. He could have paid one enough to ignore his scars, but it turned out it wasn’t any woman he wanted. He wanted her. Not a single woman in the establishment had held any attraction. He hadn’t had a chance to examine what it meant. He only knew it to be true.
No other women. The words sang through Minerva. Her drink-addled mind decided it was past time to stake her claim. She ran her hands up his chest into the open collar of his shirt. Holding his gaze, she stood on tiptoe to touch his lips with her tongue.
Her inhibitions were nonexistent, her movements frantic. She tugged roughly at his hair, deepening their kiss, and pulled at his shirt, fighting it out of his breeches. She wanted him on his back…or maybe pressed over her like in the orchard…but prone, definitely somewhere prone. And with less clothes.
Finally, with a sob of relief, she pulled his shirt free. She explored the bare expanse of his back and reveled in his heat and hardness, scratching him with her nails. He hissed his pleasure.
Rafe broke the kiss, and her world tipped dizzily. Steel bands cradled her until she came down to rest on his lap in his oversized armchair. She would have preferred a bed or the floor, but so long as he didn’t push her away, she wouldn’t complain.
Pressing herself close, not wanting an inch to separate them, Minerva nuzzled his neck with her lips. She glided a hand around his shoulders while she slipped the other under his shirt to trace the contours of his chest. His bare chest had been the starring player in most of her nightly dreams. Running her hand over the hard ridges, she wasn’t disappointed. She brushed through a sprinkling of hair to find one of his nipples.
She cupped his cheek and initiated another kiss. This time, he took the lead, plundering her mouth without mercy. She met him at least halfway, sucking his tongue into her mouth and nipping his lower lip. His erection pressed against her hip, and her body responded by rocking against him.
“No other woman can hold a candle to you.” His voice was low and gruff.
“I want you to take me.” She was throbbing and empty, but he was experienced. He knew how to ease her. She trailed a hand between her legs where the uncomfortable feeling was most acute. His eyes were wide, his gaze glued to the press of her fingers.
“Sweetheart, are…are you a maiden? A virgin?”
“Yes. Does it matter? Tell me it doesn’t matter.”
He tipped her face up with one of his callused, arousing hands. She rubbed against it like a cat, seeking more. He seemed to be searching for answers to questions he hadn’t asked. “Of course it matters. You know what happens between a man and woman?”
“I understood the biological act long ago, and your sister described what passion, need felt like.”
Rafe choked on his words, “Lily…bloody hell. How much did she—”
“As much as I wanted to know, and I was curious. But hearing about something and experiencing it is very different. A man’s tongue in my mouth sounded disgusting, but yours isn’t. Your kisses make me want to crawl inside of you. When you touched my breasts, I wanted even more. I got scared in the orchard, but it’s all I’ve thought about. Will you take me? Love me?”
The intensity on his face stripped her naked inside and out. He shook his head, tight lines radiating from his eyes and mouth. “I can help ease your ache. Do you want me to help?”
“Yes, please, yes,” she replied in a small, thready voice.
Rafe unbuttoned the rest of her gown and pulled it down, along with her chemise, exposing her breasts. The night air stirred with his movements, the wispy touch bringing pleasure to her aroused, oversensitive skin. Her eyes grew heavy, but she forced them open. The sight of his tanned hand cupping her pale breast sent more moisture between her legs. The rough pads of his fingers added to her sensory overload. Both her nipples hardened into points.
“I love your hands.” She skimmed her smaller, softer hand up his forearm, the hair tickling, the flex of muscles fascinating.
With his thumbs caressing the sensitive underside of each breast, he curled his fingers around her back, arching her over the arm of the chair. Her breasts thrust up like an offering, and he took full advantage. Flicking a tongue over one nipple and then the other, he expertly ratcheted up her pleasure.
He swirled his tongue over each nipple, wetting them, and then blew cool air. They were painfully tight now. Squirming on his lap, she clutched at his hair, words meaningless, only a primal need registering. Finally, he closed his mouth over a nipple, pulling it into his hot mouth. A shameless, guttural moan bounced around them. It was her.
Her head spun—From the liquor? From his attentions?—spiraling her higher, until nothing existed outside of his mouth, his hands, his body. He tormented her other breast and glided one of his hands up her calf, lifting her skirts along the way. She parted her legs, and he squeezed her thigh. He brushed the hair at the apex of her legs. He was so close to where she burned. Did he know?
She tipped her pelvis up, begging him without words. He moved his fingers through her curls and slipped them into her folds, stroking her. His thumb landed exactly where she ached. He knew.
“So wet.” He sounded pained.
“I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry.”
“Never be sorry, it’s a good thing, a very good thing. You actually want me. It’s more than I deserve. Christ, I want to taste you. I’ve dreamed of it countless times.”
There were things she still didn’t understand. Why didn’t he deserve this? What did he want to taste?
The same time he pushed his tongue into her mouth, he slipped one of his fingers inside of her. She gasped against his mouth at the foreign, exquisite feeling of being invaded and stretched. His pulsing erection pressed against her bottom. It belonged inside of her in place of his finger. She wanted
him to claim her. Even once. Even if it meant her ruination. But it was too late.
Tension stiffened her muscles, the play of his fingers making her squirm. Something was ready to break. Like stormy summer air before the cut of the first bolt of lightning. Instead of fighting the coming storm, she surrendered and hurled through dark clouds. The pleasure of her climax demolished her pain and frustration.
Eventually, her spirit reconnected with her earthly body, relief, pleasure, contentment warring for supremacy. He continued to stroke her.
She snuggled closer and said dreamily, “Raphael…Raphael. What did you do to me? Are you an angel?”
Rafe hummed, his chest vibrating against her. “A fallen one perhaps.”
“I love the way you smell.” She nosed the hair at his neck. His mouth curled against the hand cupping his cheek. She lifted her head to witness the rare event. “You’re so handsome.”
Her words stole his smile. “No, I’m not.”
“You are, you silly man. When I saw you in your evening clothes, I was so jealous. I knew you’d be fighting women off in droves. I’m so very glad you didn’t lie with one of those harlots.” She settled her head against his shoulder. Sleep was creeping closer, blurring the edges of her consciousness. On a huge exhale, she said, “You’re ’specially handsome when you smile and aren’t grumbly.”
She thought him handsome? Even scarred as he was? The knowledge wormed its way to his heart, lighting dark corners that had festered over the past year. A soft, indelicate snuffling caught his attention. He shifted to see her face, but her head lolled to the side, either passed out or thoroughly satisfied. Most likely both.
She was always lovely, but she’d been bewitching in her climax, a beautiful flush tingeing her breasts and cheeks. She’d clamped his finger to the point of pain. The total abandon of her surrender in his arms humbled him.
He reluctantly removed his hand from between her legs and adjusted her skirts but kept her in his lap. Stroking her hair, the delicate shell of her ears, and her hands, he marveled at the perfection of her breasts, her nipples a dusky rose to match her lips.
A Brazen Bargain: Spies and Lovers, Book 2 Page 16