Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover_The Fourth Rule of Scoundrels

by Sarah MacLean

  Wishing she could have him, nonetheless.

  If only wishing made it so.

  She shook her head. “Not forever.”

  He nodded. And she thought she saw something in his eyes, there and gone so quickly that she might not have recognized it if she did not feel it so keenly herself.

  Regret.

  She rushed to say more, knowing she merely made things worse. “If I could . . . if I were a different woman . . . if this were a different life—”

  “If I were a different man,” he offered, the words somehow both hot and cold.

  “No,” she said, wanting the truth here. Now. Where it had never been before. “I would never want you a different man.”

  His lips twisted in a humorless smile. “You should want that. Because as it is . . . as I am . . . We are impossible.”

  “If I did not need the title—”

  He cut off her thought. “Where is he?”

  She met his gaze. “Nowhere near here.”

  “When will he return?”

  “Not today.” She didn’t want Chase to return. She wanted this moment, with Duncan, to last forever. Hang the rest of the world.

  He slid the fingers of one hand into her hair. “Even if you did not need the title,” he said. “I would not marry you.”

  The words were a blow—one she no doubt deserved. He was angry, furious that she’d brought him here, to Chase’s office, but not to Chase. She understood pride well, and he was a man who had more of it than most. But still, the vow echoed through her, and she hated it. Hated that he could so easily resist her. Could so easily discount her.

  Hated that he could hurt her so well.

  That they could hurt each other.

  She could not resist fighting back. “You lie.”

  He raised a brow and tilted her head back, leaving her lips open for him. “You lie more.”

  He kissed her then, his hand sliding down the wood to throw the lock as he lifted her high, pressing her into the door, letting her legs wrap high around his waist as he took everything she offered and left her desperate to give him more. To give him everything.

  She gasped, her arms wrapping around his neck as he held her off the ground, as though she weighed nothing at all, as though she were a puppet on a string. And perhaps she was. Perhaps he was her puppet master. His hands were everywhere, at her bottom, in her hair, between them, palming her breasts as he pressed into her, promising ease to the parts of her that ached, desperate for him.

  She’d never wanted anything the way she wanted this man.

  She threaded her fingers through his hair, clenching tight in the blond curls as he released her mouth and slid his lips across her cheek and down her jaw to the lobe of her ear, soft and tremendously sensitive. She gasped, turning her head into the caress as he licked and bit there, at that place about which she’d never really thought.

  Her knees went weak, and she was grateful for his firm grip, for the way he held her, strong and without hesitation, as though she weighed nothing at all. He palmed her backside, lifting her higher, pressing deeper, and whispered at her ear. “Here is something that is not a lie; I am going to make you scream your pleasure. You will beg for me to stop, and then, when I do, you will beg for me to start again. You won’t know what to do with yourself when I am done with you, because you will not remember your body outside of the pleasure I intend to give you.”

  The words intended to shock her, and they did. She watched the promise on his lips and closed her eyes against the flood of anticipation they caused deep within her, unable to stop herself from moving against him, thoroughly wanton. She sighed at the feel of him there, between her legs, where she wanted him, repeating the motion, loving the way he pressed against her, bold and unyielding and without apology . . . and then loving the way he groaned his pleasure at the sensation even more.

  He swore, the word dark and full of sin. “You know what you do to me, and you do not care.”

  She leaned forward and bit his lower lip, pulling him to her for another long, drugging kiss. When they parted, they were both panting their pleasure. She smiled. “I do not care in the slightest.”

  He lifted her, turned her, carried her across the room, setting her on the edge of the massive desk, running one hand up the outside of her thigh as he talked, the words sending heat and promise through her. “I adore these trousers,” he confessed, his large hand exploring the muscles and bones of her leg, curving over her thigh to find the soft, untouched place inside, inching along the fabric there until she wished he would pull the damn things off her and do what his touch promised.

  She placed her hands to the desk behind her and leaned back, watching him watch her, watching his touch wash over her. He spoke, his words following his caress. “I am viciously jealous of them, though.”

  She leaned back, and they both watched his fingers play along the inside seam of the leg. “Why?”

  “They are able to touch you here,” he said, the words lush and lovely, his fingers at the outside of her knee, teasing up the line of the breeches. “And here,” he added, his touch at the inside of her thigh. “And . . .” He trailed off as he reached the place where her thighs met, and she shifted. He growled at the movement. “That’s right,” he whispered. “Spread yourself for me.”

  God forgive her, she did, parting her thighs, affording him access to the place they both wanted him most. He took what she offered, his strong hand cupping the most secret part of her, and she sighed her pleasure at the touch, even as she was desperate for more of him.

  “You like that,” he said, as though he were discussing a painting. A meal. A walk in the park.

  “I do,” she said, not taking her gaze from that hand, from the place where he held her, firm and with an unbearable promise. “God help me, I do.”

  “He won’t help you,” Duncan said, his other hand coming to the buttons on her linen shirt, releasing them one by one until she was looking down at the swell of her bare breasts. “This is the domain of another, far less perfect.” He cursed again, the word reverberating through the room as he spread the two halves of her shirt and bared her to him. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

  She watched that hand, large and bronzed, slide across the skin of her stomach, a wicked promise. “Please,” she said, desperate for him.

  “Please what?” he asked.

  “Don’t make me beg.”

  He looked at her then, knowledge and understanding in those unbearably gorgeous eyes. “I fully intend to make you beg, love. I promised you pleasure of the highest order. I promised you that I would control our time together. And I promised you would enjoy it to distraction. And you want all that, don’t you?”

  She did not have the energy to lie. She nodded. “Yes.”

  He leaned forward then, rewarding her truth with a long, lingering suck at one nipple, until she cried out her pleasure and put her hands in his hair.

  The moment she touched him, he stopped. “Put your hands on the desk.”

  She did what he asked without question.

  He liked it. “Look at yourself,” he commanded, letting one finger draw a wicked circle around the straining tip he had just anointed. She looked fully the wanton, Anna, in all her glory, and Georgiana took the moment to arch her back, presenting her bare breasts to him. Tempting him once more.

  She was rewarded with another long caress, this time on the breast he had previously ignored. And then he lifted his head and said, “I want you to enjoy this.”

  She smiled. “I have no concerns that I shan’t enjoy it.”

  He was utterly serious. “If I do anything you do not like, I want you to tell me.”

  “I shall.”

  “I shall know if you are lying.”

  She met his gaze. “I shan’t lie. Not in this.”

  In all other things, but not here. Not with him.

  She took a deep breath. “Shall we go to my bed?” It was a heartbeat away, behind a nearb
y door. Large and plush and made for him. She would be lying if she said she had not spent many a night in that very bed, thinking of this man, of this moment. Of the way he might touch her one day. Of the way he might want her one day.

  And that day had come.

  He shook his head, his fingers playing at the tip of her breast, sending a thrill through her. “I don’t want you anywhere he’s had you.”

  Chase.

  She shook her head. “You don’t have to worry.”

  She saw the storm cross his face at the words. She wished him to know the truth. “I have not . . . with anyone . . .”

  He held up a hand, staying the words. “Don’t.”

  He did not believe her. “Duncan—” she began, letting the words sound her urgency.

  He did not let her finish, instead pulling her to the edge of the desk. “Here.”

  She looked down at the oak. “Here? On the desk?”

  “On his desk.”

  She heard the slight emphasis on the pronoun, barely there. Barely noticeable if one did not expect it. She also heard the frustration in the words, instantly understanding its roots—he thought there was no place in the club where she and Chase hadn’t done this.

  And so he took ownership of this place, where he believed Chase was king.

  He wanted her here.

  And, God help her, she wanted him just as much.

  More.

  She nodded. “Here.”

  He watched her for a long moment, and she saw the myriad of emotions chase through him: anger, frustration, desire.

  Pain.

  She reached for him, wanting to stop it, but he resisted, pulling away from her touch, instead moving to lift one of her feet in his enormous hands. “I want you here,” he said, gruffly, unlacing her boot. “I want you naked,” he said, punctuating the slide of the boot from her foot as he set it on the arm of a chair perched nearby and set to work on the second. “And I want you mine.”

  Mine.

  The word curled through her on a flood of desire, robbing her of breath. When had anyone ever wanted her like this? When had anyone ever honestly desired to claim her? Yes, men wanted her body when she dressed in her bold silks and satins and paraded through the casino as Anna, but this was different. He wanted her—Georgiana—in a way no one ever had. Not even the man she had given herself to all those years ago.

  But the way he spoke that word—Mine—it was not a request. It was, instead, a gruff promise. A claiming. A possession.

  And she found she wanted to be possessed.

  Very much.

  The thought was punctuated by the slide of her second boot, removed with a single, firm tug and tossed to the floor as Duncan returned his hands to her stockinged feet. He took her ankles in his hands, lifting her legs, parting them, stepping between them. She instinctively wrapped herself around him, pulling him closer until they met, hard and hot, where they each wanted the other. She threw her head back as he pressed into her, and he wrapped one strong arm around her waist, holding her weight, keeping her arched and open to him.

  “Say it,” he growled, meeting her eyes, his free hand coming up to palm one aching breast. “Say it, and I’ll give you everything you want.”

  She did not have to ask what he meant. She knew. Knew, also, that it would not be a lie. Somehow in this mad world, in this mad time, she had come to adore this man. She had come to belong to him. And it was beautiful.

  But it could never last.

  But nothing beautiful lasted—was that not the lesson she had learned all those years ago, wrapped in warm arms and crisp hay? Love was fleeting and ephemeral, the desperate dream of a naïve, innocent girl.

  And so she would give herself to this, and then walk away and live the life she intended.

  But first, freedom.

  First, him.

  “I am yours,” she confessed.

  He rewarded her with a deep, wonderful growl and a long, devastating kiss that ended with him pulling her to the edge of the desk and setting his hands to the fall of her breeches, working at the buttons with intent skill, unfastening them one after the other until the trousers loosened and he slid them down her legs, taking her stockings with him.

  “My lady,” he said, Stepping back, watching her with vivid concentration. She could not meet his gaze, too keenly aware of what she must look like—shirt hanging open, loose around her shoulders, the last vestige of her clothing.

  Too keenly aware of her past, of the lies she’d built around her about this act. Of the fact that she’d only ever done this once before.

  “Look at me.” The words were full of command, and she should have hated them, but she didn’t. Her gaze snapped to his, recognizing the power in him.

  Wanting it.

  “My lady.” He whispered, the words both prayer and promise.

  “Open for me.” The command stole her breath, and she hesitated, not knowing if she could. It was one thing to bare herself to him in the dark waters of his transcendent swimming pool, but another thing entirely to do it here, in broad daylight.

  It had never been like this. The only time she had ever come close to this experience had been a decade earlier, with a man who had lied to her. Ruined her. Left her.

  There had been nothing about those fleeting, life-altering moments in the hayloft at Leighton Manor that had come close to this moment with this man.

  Nothing about that time that even approximated this. This was freedom—the last breath of her life before she committed to a new world as aristocratic wife, committed to nothing but her daughter’s legacy.

  And so why not enjoy it?

  Why not welcome the moment and drink from its cup?

  Lifted her chin, pressed her shoulders back, bold as brass. “Make me.”

  Something wicked flared in his beautiful brown eyes. “You think I cannot?”

  “I think you wish me to do your work for you.” She willed him forward. Willed him to touch her.

  Instead, he took a step back and sat in a leather chair that stood by the desk, leaning back, deceptively relaxed. Nervousness flared deep in her, but she resisted it.

  His gaze raked over her as he stretched out in the chair, his booted feet mere inches from her bare ones. “Open for me,” he repeated.

  She gave him a small smile. “It shan’t be so easy.”

  He raised a brow. “No. It shan’t.” He lingered on her breasts, and her skin heated at the regard as he moved his gaze down, toward the place she wanted him quite desperately. He watched her until she thought she might die from his attention. Just when she was about to give in to him, he said, “You are going to open for me, and when you do, you will regret not doing so when I asked.”

  Her eyes widened. “Is that a threat?”

  His lips curved in a slow, near-mercenary smile. “Not in the slightest.” He lifted one hand and set it to his jaw, assessing her with a long, leisurely look, his index finger stroking over his lower lip in a gesture a lesser woman might deem pensive.

  Georgiana was not a lesser woman. The movement of that finger was not pensive. It was predatory.

  And every inch it moved on his lips seemed to light a fire in her.

  “You will regret it, though,” he went on, “as every moment you are not open to me is a moment I do not touch you. A moment you do not feel my hands, and my mouth, and my tongue.”

  The words sent a shock through her as she imagined all those things, a repeat of the night in his swimming pool. The glorious feel of him against her.

  “A moment I do not stroke . . . or kiss . . . or lick.”

  She exhaled at the final word, at the way it seemed to deliver on its meaning, leaving a trail of fire straight through her to the place he asked for . . . to the place she wanted him.

  He understood. “You enjoy it when I lick you, don’t you, my lady?”

  Good God. She was not a prude; she’d spent the last six years surrounded by gamers and prostitutes. She ran London’s finest gaming hell, fo
r heaven’s sake. But all that seemed entirely ordinary and acceptable compared to this man, who had turned into sin incarnate the moment they’d touched.

  It was broad daylight, and he spoke of licking as though it were the weather.

  “Georgiana,” he prompted, her name a slow promise. “Do you enjoy it?”

  That finger on his lips was driving her mad. She pressed her thighs together, reminding herself of their game. “I seem to recall it being quite pleasant.”

  Something flared in his eyes. Humor. Understanding of the part she played. “Only pleasant?”

  She smiled, small and soft. “As I remember.”

  “We have differing memories, then,” he said, “As I remember your hands in my hair, your cries in the darkness, your legs wrapped around me like sin.” His gaze fell to the apex of her thighs. “I remember the flood of you when you came, the way you arched toward the sky, everything forgotten except pleasure. Wrought by me. By my tongue in all the places you ached.”

  She forgot the game, her muscles going weak as he spoke.

  “I remember the taste of you, sweet and sex . . . and the feel of you, like decadent silk, soft and wet . . . and mine.”

  That word again. His.

  He was seducing her with nothing but words, promising her everything she’d ever wanted if only she gave in—if only she opened to him. She took a deep breath and matched him once more. “You speak of before,” she said, unable to keep the breathlessness from her words. “But what good is that to me now? Here?”

  His brows rose in surprise before he leaned forward, his words part danger and part play.

  And all desire.

  “Open for me and let’s find out.”

  She giggled. The sound shocking them both with its honesty. She was almost embarrassed—would have been if he hadn’t dropped his hand and leaned forward the instant the laugh escaped her lips. “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” He reached for her, then, one large, warm hand curving around her knee, the touch erasing the game they played.