Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover_The Fourth Rule of Scoundrels

by Sarah MacLean

Her legs parted.

  “So goddamn beautiful,” he said, his gaze not leaving her face as he came off the chair, falling to his knees at the edge of the desk, between her thighs. “So goddamn perfect.” He pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee, then her thigh. “So goddamn honest.”

  She stiffened at the last, even as his lips curved high at the crease of her thigh, where it met the part of her that ached for him. For this.

  Honesty.

  She hadn’t been honest with him. There was nothing honest about this. Nothing honest about her. And he deserved better.

  He sensed the change in her, lifting his lips, meeting her eyes across the long expanse of her torso. “Don’t think it.”

  She knew he did not understand, but replied nonetheless, shaking her head. “I cannot help it.”

  He pressed a kiss to the soft hair above the most secret part of her, the caress long and lingering and somehow sweet. “Tell me,” he said.

  There were a dozen things she should tell him. A hundred she wished to tell him. But only one that found its way out. And it was perhaps the truest thing she’d ever said.

  “I wish it could be like this. Forever.”

  Her words nearly killed him. The truth of them, the way they mirrored his own thoughts, here in this place that was not his. Was not hers. This place that would ruin them both without question.

  He wanted it forever, too, but, it was impossible. His past, her future, neither was conducive to forever. Those outside forces that loomed, they were barriers to forever.

  No, forever was for simpler people and simpler times.

  He leaned forward on his knees, keenly aware of the position, of the way he worshipped her, as though she were a goddess and he were her sacrifice. He pressed a kiss to the pretty soft curls that hid her secrets. Her position—the trust in it—the pleasure in it—made him harder than he’d ever been in his life.

  He wanted this woman.

  He might not be able to have her forever, but he could have this moment, this memory . . . This could last. It could stay with him on dark nights.

  And it could ruin her for every other man who came after him.

  “I’ve never tasted anything like you,” he whispered, letting his breath tease those curls as he parted her slowly, adoring the way she glistened, warm and pink for him. “Sweet and sinful and forbidden.” He ran one finger down the wet slit gently, and she lifted her hips toward him. She was so tender, so ready for him. “Slick and wet and perfect.”

  He ran one finger down the center of her, listening to her breathing, to the way her breath hitched and rattled as he explored. “And you know it, don’t you? You know your power.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  He met her gaze, leaned in, let his tongue stroke once, long and lush along her. He reveled in the way she gasped, the way she closed her eyes against the pleasure. “No,” he said. “Don’t look away.”

  She opened her eyes, and he licked again, loving the way desire flooded her. “Tell me.”

  “It feels—”

  He repeated the movement, lingering at the top of the caress, where she wanted him most, and she cried out. He spoke there. “Go on.”

  “Glorious.”

  “More.”

  He swirled his tongue over the little, straining bud, and she sighed. “Don’t stop.”

  “I won’t if you tell me.”

  “It feels like . . . I’ve never . . .” He sucked, loving the way she lost her words. “Oh, God.”

  He smiled, letting his tongue play at her. “Not God.”

  “Duncan.” She sighed his name, and he thought he would die if he wasn’t inside her soon.

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s beautiful.” Her hands found his hair, her fingers pressing him toward her as her hips rocked against him. “You’re perfect,” she whispered, and he was shocked by the words. And then she said something thoroughly unexpected. “It feels like . . . love.”

  And there, in that moment, with the word hovering in the air, he realized that that was precisely what he meant for it to feel like.

  He loved her.

  The realization should have terrified him, but instead, it washed over him with the warm pleasure that came from truth, finally revealed. And at the far edge of that pleasure was the edge of something unpleasant. Devastation. Denial.

  He ignored it, instead making love to her with slow, slick strokes. She moved against him, showing him what she liked, where she liked it, and he gave it to her without hesitation. She was manna, and he fed upon her, wanting to bring her pleasure only to give her pleasure. To give her the memory of this moment.

  Of his love—a love that could not be.

  Slow circles became fast, moving in time to her breath and her sighs and the feel of her fingers in his hair and the rise and fall of her glorious hips. And then she found her release, and he held her, stroking her, kissing her softly, guiding her through it, and back.

  As her last, pleased sigh echoed around them, he rose from his knees, desperate for her, adoring the way her gaze tracked him, eyes wide, lips parted. He stripped out of his coat and cravat, watching her watch him, wanting her as she wanted him. He pulled his shirt over his head, lowering his arms and resisting the urge to preen as her attention fell to his chest, to his stomach.

  She closed her mouth, and he saw her throat move as she swallowed.

  He wanted to roar his pleasure at her obvious approval.

  “Poseidon,” she whispered.

  He raised a brow in silent question, wondering if he would be able to wait for her answer before he took her in his arms and made her his. Forever.

  He could ignore the word and its insidious whisper in the dark recesses of his mind, because she answered. “At your home, in your swimming pool . . .” She reached for him, her fingertips running along his shoulder, down the curve of his arm, where his muscles were taut with the effort it took not to claim her. “You were Poseidon in the water, so strong . . .” The fingers moved to the muscles of his abdomen. “So perfectly made . . .” trailing up through the hair there, “so handsome . . .” sliding over the skin of his chest until they found the flat disc of his nipple and he nearly groaned his pleasure. She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his chest in a lovely, lingering caress.

  She pulled away and met his gaze. “God of the sea.”

  “And you, my siren,” he said, reaching for her, letting his fingers slide into the soft hair at the nape of her neck, lifting her face to him.

  “I hope not,” she said, and he paused, waiting for her to explain. She smiled, and the expression was small and filled with sin. “Poseidon could resist the sirens.”

  He could not resist her. Not for all the world. He took her mouth in a deep, lingering kiss, even as her hands came to the fall of his trousers and he thought he might die from the wait as she worked at the buttons there. She fumbled with the fastenings and he moved to take over.

  “No,” she said, pulling back and meeting his gaze. “I want to do it.”

  He took a breath, steeled himself. “Do it, then.”

  And then there was a glorious release, and her hands were sliding into the placket of his trousers, finally, finally touching him. He swore, the word harsh and soft in the room as she freed him. He watched her, loving the way her gaze fell to him, the way her eyes widened and her lips parted, and he would have given his entire fortune to know what she thought of him. And then the tip of her pink tongue came out, sliding along her lower lip, and her hands moved, stroking, long and lush.

  Once. Twice.

  He placed his hand on hers, staying the movement. “Stop.”

  She froze, her gaze flying to his. “Am I . . .” She hesitated. Tried again. “Did I do something wrong?”

  He stilled at the words, at the expression in her wide eyes—concern, apprehension. He narrowed his gaze on hers, hating the falseness. He loved her. And still she lied to him. “No. Don’t play the innocent. I want the real you. Not the fan
tasy.” He put his hands to her cheeks, turning her up to him. “I don’t care about the past. Only about the present.”

  The future.

  No. He could not care about that.

  It was not for him.

  Something flashed in those beautiful amber eyes. Something like frustration. She looked away, then down at where their hands were entwined, wrapped about him. “Show me,” she whispered finally. “Show me what you like.”

  He leaned in, kissing her again, wanting to return them to the moment. He slid his lips to her ear. “I like it all, love. I like every bit of you on every bit of me. And I like your hands wrapped around me, tight and hot like a promise.” Her breathing was fast at his ear, and he guided her hands on him. “I like your beautiful eyes on me. I like you watching me. I like you watching yourself touch me.” He moved back enough to let her look down their bodies, at their hands, at the length of him, so close to her. So close to the place he wanted to be. “Shall I tell you what else I like?”

  She stroked him several times before she answered, the whisper filled with desire. “Yes.”

  I love you.

  No. It would only bring them both pain.

  He reached for her, sliding one finger into her, slick from his mouth and her desire. “I like your pretty pink lips.”

  She laughed at the words, breathless. He slid one finger deep into her tight, dark channel, and the laugh became a gasp. He looked up at her. “And I would like very much to be inside you.”

  She met his eyes. “I want that, too.”

  He kissed her, then set his forehead to hers as she placed him where she wanted him, at the entrance to her, and he bit back a curse at the sensation, so hot and wet—for him. He eased into her, so tight, and she sucked in a breath. He met her eyes, registering the discomfort there. “Georgiana?” he asked, something unsettling him even as he thought he might die from the pleasure of her.

  She shook her head. “It is fine.”

  Except it wasn’t. She was in pain. He eased back.

  She clamped her legs around his waist. “No. Please. Now.”

  If he didn’t know better . . .

  She pulled him closer, and he lost the thought until her breath hitched again. “Stop,” he said. “Let me . . .”

  He pulled back, then rocked in again, in short, gentle slides, each deeper than the last, until he was deep inside her, buried to the hilt. “Yes,” she whispered as he bent and placed a long, lingering kiss to the place where her neck met her shoulder. “Yes.”

  He could not have said it better himself.

  He pulled back, met her eyes. “Is it—?”

  She leaned up and kissed him, letting her tongue slide between his lips in a stunning kiss. When it was through, she said, “It is magnificent.” Then she pressed her hands to his chest, pushing him back enough to look down between them. “Look at us.”

  He did, following her gaze, and he felt himself grow even harder, deep inside her. She inhaled, then smiled. “You seem to be enjoying yourself, sir.”

  Christ. He loved her.

  He wanted her. Playful. Brilliant. Beautiful. Sinful.

  Forever.

  He matched her smile with his own. “I can think of ways I would enjoy myself more.”

  She placed her hands at the curve of his buttocks and squeezed. He groaned. “Show me.”

  And he did.

  He moved in deep, decadent strokes, and she matched him, lifting her long legs, his name on her lips like a mantra, first soft and barely there, and then a cry of pleasure, making him wish this moment would never end. He wrapped one arm around her waist, holding her close as he thrust, and her hands came to his shoulders, wrapping tightly around him as she cried out for him.

  As though he would leave her.

  As though it were possible for him to leave her.

  He would never leave her.

  She pulled back at the last moment, as he thrust fast and strong against her. She met his gaze. “Now,” she said, the word full of desire and wonder, hinting at something he would be able to grasp if his head weren’t so damn full of her. “Now.”

  Now, indeed.

  She fell into pleasure, tight and perfect around him, with such power that he thought he might not survive it. She called his name as he thrust once, twice, hard and fast and glorious until his release raced toward him, and he pulled out of her, coming hard and fast and like nothing he’d ever experienced.

  As one.

  And he knew, instantly, that he had not ruined her for other men.

  She had ruined him for other women. For life.

  He pulled away, and she sighed a protest at his departure, making him ache for her once more. He wasn’t ready to leave her, but he fastened his trousers loosely, and removed a handkerchief, lifting her in his arms and carrying her to one of the large chairs on the far side of the room before settling her into his lap and cleaning her.

  “You didn’t . . .” she trailed off.

  “I didn’t think you would want the risk.” Not that he didn’t secretly enjoy the idea—a collection of tiny blond children with their mother’s pretty amber eyes. “You did not choose the last time. You should choose the next.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes, and he pulled her close, wanting to keep her safe now. Forever.

  Christ. That word again.

  She curled into him as he stroked his hands over her beautiful, soft skin, replaying the event in his mind as their breathing returned to normal, turning over her words, her movements, her sounds.

  The moments of surprise. Of wonder. Of desire.

  Of discomfort.

  Realization dawned.

  She lifted her head when his hands stilled on her. “What is it?”

  He shook his head, not wanting to answer.

  Not wanting it to be true.

  She smiled, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Tell me.”

  I have not . . . with anyone . . .

  She’d said it. He simply hadn’t believed her.

  Who was she?

  What game did she play?

  What game did Chase play?

  He met her eyes, noting the openness there, the honesty. So rare. Something must have shown in his own gaze, because hers went wary. “Duncan?”

  He didn’t want to say it, and yet, he could not stop himself. “You’re not a whore.”

  Chapter 17

  . . . It is a constant surprise to this publication that Lady G— was so easily dismissed for nearly a decade. What we would not offer for a peek into the lady’s past! Alas, we shall have to settle for watching her bright future . . .

  . . . Several critical votes are before the Houses of Parliament this week. The owner of this very paper is a vocal proponent of setting clear limits for child labor, and watches carefully as this great Nation’s leaders decide the fate of her youngest citizens . . .

  The News of London, May 9, 1833

  She froze at the words.

  Perhaps she could have brazened it through, if not for the way he’d made her feel, the way he’d slowly, effortlessly dismantled her guard, leaving it on the floor with her trousers and his cravat and all their inhibitions.

  The way he’d somehow given her pleasure and peace and the promise of more, even as she’d known all of it was fleeting.

  Perhaps she could have lied, but how could she? How could she pretend to know the tricks and trade of London’s finest lightskirt when he’d so thoroughly destroyed her with his kiss and touch and kindness?

  She’d expected the kissing. The touching.

  But the kindness had been too much. It had stripped her bare, leaving her with nothing to protect her from his careful observations and his probing questions.

  For the first time in an age, she did not know what to say. She left his lap, standing, moving naked to the place where he’d divested her of her clothing and her lies. She lifted her shirt from where it had landed on the arm of a chair, and slid into it, pulling it closed around her as he spoke again. “You ca
nnot hide from me. Not in this. You and Chase clearly have some kind of plan—something of which I am a part. Unwillingly.” The words sent fear straight through her, as this brilliant man discovered one of her best-kept secrets and came closer to uncovering all the rest.

  The irony, of course, was that most men would be thrilled to know that they had not just slept with a prostitute.

  But there was nothing about Duncan West that was like other men.

  And there was nothing about him that appeared pleased with the discovery.

  He did not seem to care that she was virtually naked, or that she was emotionally bare, or that she was unsettled by his statement, or that she did not wish to discuss it. “When was the last time you slept with someone?”

  She tried to hedge her way out of the conversation, leaning down, retrieving her trousers. “I sleep with Caroline quite often.”

  His gaze turned furious as he leaned forward and she tried her best to ignore the way his muscles shifted, rippling beneath his smooth skin. “Let me rephrase, I forget sometimes where you have chosen to make your life. When was the last time you fucked a man?”

  The curse was a gift, reminding her that she was more than this moment, that she was queen of London’s underworld, more powerful than he could imagine. More powerful than anyone could imagine.

  Even he.

  She should have been angry with him. Should have squared her shoulders, nakedness be damned, and told him precisely what he could do with his foul language. Should have stalked, bare and bold, to the wall and rung the bell to call security to this place, where he should not be.

  Where she should not have brought him.

  Where she would never forget him.

  She looked away. The whole afternoon had gone pear-shaped, and instead, his anger made her want to tell him the truth. To mend the moment. To answer his questions and return to his arms and restore his faith. Not an hour earlier, he’d vowed to protect her.

  How long had it been since someone had wished to do that?

  “Look at me.” It was not a request.

  She looked at him, desperate to stay strong. “What we did . . . it wasn’t . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word. “That.”