by Eva Devon
“It does not matter, Cleo,” he protested. A sort of panic was claiming him as he thought of the footpads and street gangs that would kill her for her shoes, let alone a few coins. “London is not a safe city. There are people who would kill you for that belt of yours, let alone any money that you might be carrying. Your hat alone is a good enough reason to be murdered.”
She nodded. “I gathered as much, just from the fringes of that area. I did not linger long. But it was informative to see the rot and the decay that has been allowed to occur in your fair city, which is not truly fair at all. . . Except for the West, where the aristocrats and wealthy people live.”
He nodded grudgingly. “I cannot deny it. There’s a great deal of poverty in London, but we are many of us trying to eradicate it.”
“You should, or else you’ll have a revolution here,” she predicted
How the devil had their conversation turned to such serious things? And yet he found he admired her the more for caring enough to actually investigate the country she was in. “I am aware of it, as are many of my friends.”
“Revolution can be a good thing,” she said carefully.
“Yes, it can,” he replied, knowing she was an American, but uninterested in a bloody conflict upon his soil. “Or it can be a bloodbath like it has been in France.”
She sighed. “It’s so hard to tell which way it will go. But the more the people suffer, the more likely it will be violent here.”
He nodded. “I couldn’t agree more. But we’ve had a revolution before, and it didn’t go particularly well.”
“Cromwell,” she observed with a grimace.
“Exactly,” he confirmed. “The people would be reticent to return to a life like that.”
“I can’t blame them,” she agreed. “I wouldn’t like to be denied all the pleasures of this life either. The very idea.”
“Did you know,” he asked, picking the decanter and pouring more wine into their glasses, “under the rule of Cromwell women were severely limited in their ability to go out and about without permission?”
“Bloody hell,” she exclaimed. “The cheek of it. I would have been dead in a trice.”
“Well, you’d certainly be in the stocks every Sunday. That would be for sure.”
“The horror,” she said with drama. “But,” she then added, “in the United States, we used to be quite strict about things as well.”
“Are you not now?” he queried, curious what it was like in the land across the pond.
“Well, things have gotten a little better, but I do not spend a great deal of time there now. I make the West Indies my home, and I sail the globe.”
“Do you like sailing the globe?” he asked, finding himself rather desperate to understand her nomadic existence.
A look of pure happiness crossed her features. “There is nothing better in the whole world than to have the wind at your back and the sun in your face and dolphins leaping at the prow of your ship.”
He could not even imagine such a thing.
It sounded so. . . free, but he wondered if she was ever lonely. “Do you sometimes miss company?” he asked.
“Company?” she echoed. “I’m surrounded by company. My sister has always been with me, and I have a large crew.”
“No, I don’t mean like that,” he corrected. “But a dedicated group of people. Friends, family.”
“Do you have family?” she asked without animosity, but genuine curiosity.
He hesitated. “No, I don’t. I was an only child, and my mother and father are both gone. I have no real close cousins. I am the last of my line.”
“That is rather sad,” she said gently. “I’m certainly not the last of mine. I have a host of brothers, as you know, four, and Calliope. We shall continue to people the world with Dukes for some time.”
He laughed at that. “Well, I’m the last chance for my family. And, though I did not particularly like my father, I long to have a family of my own.”
“Do you?” she said, her lips parting. “I’m rather surprised, a rake like yourself.”
“I’m not really a true rake,” he rushed, wondering why he felt the need to explain himself. . . But he did. “I just enjoy the company of ladies, and recently I’ve decided it time to leave that life in the past.”
“Time?” she queried, her brows rising. “Do not say such a thing. You’re making me absolutely terrified.”
He laughed. “I know that you are bound to leave at any moment. Perhaps you are my last adventure.”
“I’m your last adventure?” she repeated, her voice rich. “I am absolutely honored, my lord. Am I the fire in which you’re going to build the pyre of the end of your debauchery?”
“Yes,” he replied, laughing. . . Even as his heart whispered that he wished she was the one who would keep him warm for the rest of his life. “I think so. I think you’ll do it admirably.”
She laughed in turn. “In truth, I don’t know if I should be horrified or most honored, as I said.”
“Be honored, Cleo.” He reached out and gently touched her cheek. “I have never liked anyone as well as you.”
“Then I am sorry for you if that is true.” She hesitated then tilted her face into his palm. “You must not have known very many excellent people.”
“I’ve known hundreds and hundreds of people,” he whispered. “But there is only one person like you.”
“You say that now,” Cleo said, her face growing serious, “but you’ve only known me for hours perhaps. You don’t know what I’m actually like. You don’t know what it’s like to live with me. I might be absolutely unbearable.”
“So you might,” he agreed, searching her visage, “but there’s only one way to find out.”
“Proposing living with me, are you?”
“For a period of time,” he whispered. “Can we not be in each other’s company more than not?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “That, I suppose we could. I think we shall like it very much, at least for a while. Don’t you?”
“I think it’s quite possible,” he replied.
With that, he slipped her wine from her hand then put both glasses down on the table before the fire.
“Now,” he said. “I think you are far too dressed for my liking.”
“Indeed,” she agreed before giving him a wicked stare. “Now, you know, as a captain, it is I who usually gives the orders.”
“Oh?” he replied, desire lacing his veins. He could not help but tease her, and so he rumbled, “I’m certain. But as the lord, it is I who usually gives the orders.”
“What ever will we do?” Cleo asked, her hands propped on her breech-clad hips. “Two people used to giving orders. We cannot have two captains.”
“Perhaps,” he began, closing the distance between them. “Instead of a lord and a captain, we can become. . .”
“What do you propose?” she prompted, her voice breathy now.
“A temporary democracy where we have equal say?” He eyed her mouth, eager to take it with his own. “Shall we not give it a try?”
“Let us see how long it will last,” she teased, drawing in her lower lip with her teeth before she agreed, “I’m willing if you are.”
“Oh, I am,” he replied, his voice a low growl in the quiet room.
“Glad to hear it, my lord,” she said, holding her hand out to him. “Shall we begin?”
Chapter 14
Cleo could scarce draw breath as her heart pounded against her ribs. He was intoxicating. She was unquestionably under his spell, and she did not wish it to ever end.
In all her life, she’d never felt so tempted, not even when she was a young girl seeing her first sights of an exquisite, masculine body.
Her mother had not tried to hide those things from her, nor had her mother espoused virtue and purity in the same sentence. No, her mother had encouraged herself and her sister, Calliope, to enjoy the pleasures of humanity, and so she’d never been particularly worried about sin.
She was far more worried about cruelty. She could not be cruel, but a little bit of pleasure? That was something she would happily yield to.
Anne Donnelly had wanted her daughters to be independent, strong, and emboldened by their own bodies, not frightened of them. It was one of the greatest gifts she’d ever been given. And most interestingly, she’d not been particularly inclined to have affairs. She was not lying when she’d told Rutherford that she did not have a man in every port. She’d had a few experiences in her life.
They had all been pleasant because she’d picked the men well, but that did not mean she threw herself around willy-nilly. Oh no, she was very careful in the men she chose and allowed into her bed, for she understood it was a privilege and something to take care of. A man could do a great deal of damage if a woman was not careful.
With Rutherford?
She would yield all night long.
She raked him up and down with her gaze. He was beautiful, standing in his room with the golden glow of the fire, more beautiful than she even remembered from that coaching inn. His linen shirt caressed his hard torso.
“Take it off,” she said. “Please.”
“I’m so glad you said please,” he said. “It makes it easy to do as you wish.”
And with that, he reached down to his breeches and tugged the linen from his pants. Oh, so slowly, he stretched, lifting the linen up over his shoulders and over his head. He held the fabric for a moment in one hand, his upper body rippling with the action. And then he tossed the ball of linen into a corner.
She bit her lower lip, astounded by the sight of him. She’d never seen someone so perfectly formed in all her life. Her fingers absolutely itched to reach out to touch him.
And so, she did. She did not need to deny herself, so she would not.
Slowly, she skimmed her fingers over his rib cage. It expanded as he sucked in a sharp breath. His skin seemed to delight in her touch, and she slowly dragged her fingertips up over his hard pectoral then to his collarbones. She traced them and then, gently, cupped his hard jaw.
“You, sir, are a beautiful fellow.”
“Thank you. I find you to be equally beautiful.”
“Oh, I am not beautiful,” she protested.
“You are, Cleo,” he growled. “You light up any room you walk into.”
“Do I compete with the fire?” she teased.
“Shh,” he said. “Do not make light of it. Now you, take off your coat.”
And so, she did. She turned her back to him and ever so slowly shimmied out of it, allowing it to fall at her feet.
He groaned. “You’re still overdressed. I think I am at a disadvantage, for far more of my skin is bared than yours.”
“Oh dear. What ever shall we do?” she teased.
“Take off your waistcoat,” he urged.
And with that, she turned back to him and smiled.
Slowly, one button at a time, she undid it and then allowed it to fall to her coat. She stood in her linen shirt, which was fairly loose, and her breeches.
His eyes skimmed over her body.
“Still too many clothes,” he declared.
“What ever shall I do now?” she asked. “What would you like?” “Your breeches,” he said, his voice rough with passion.
She was surprised.
She thought he would immediately ask her to take off her shirt as so many men might have done. Men did seem to be obsessed with breasts. But instead, he seemed to wish to delay the gratification, which only seemed to suggest this evening was going to be worthwhile, indeed.
So, slowly, easily, she bent down and tugged off her well-worn, beloved boots. Then she reached under her shirt and began to undo the buttons at her breeches. She worked them down her legs.
They were tight, so it was no easy thing. Then one foot at a time, she pulled them off and kicked them into the corner. She stood, now naked except for her long linen shirt, which stretched down just halfway past her thighs.
Silently, serious now, Andrew crossed to her and took her hand in his. He led her to the bed, their hands entwined. Every step along the woven carpet was torture.
Every step beat with the promise and anticipation of her having him alone in that great bed, entirely to herself, where they could take pleasure in each other. Over and over again.
At long last, she stopped before the four-poster, her thighs brushing the goose-down mattress. “No going back now.”
Chapter 15
Andrew took a slow breath, determined to have her, but not without pleasing her senseless first.
He lifted her and put her down onto the downy quilts. “On your knees.”
Her eyes widened at his order, but she complied, adjusting her long linen shirt so that she knelt on the white fabric.
There would be no holding back, he knew.
Not with Cleo.
He was going to take her with every ounce of passion he possessed.
Andrew cupped her chin in his palm then stole her mouth with a hungry kiss. He trailed his lips over hers and slipped his tongue into her mouth.
She arched toward him, her mouth opening wider, her breathing growing erratic.
This time, he yanked her shirt up to her hips quickly.
He needed to feel her.
To know she couldn’t escape him now.
Roughly, he dragged his fingertips over her hips and upper thighs, then as he thrust his tongue into her mouth, he slipped his fingers between her legs.
She let out a moan of pure bliss as he caressed the most important part of a woman’s pleasure. He stroked his fingers into her wet heat then teased that little nub. He didn’t break the kiss, but rather tangled his tongue with hers as he circled his fingers over her clitoris.
She grabbed onto his bare shoulders and rocked her hips towards him. To his satisfaction, he felt it then. The ripples of pleasure, the tensing of her body, and she moaned into his mouth as she came.
He loved her release, stroking relentlessly until he was sure he’d wrung every bit of pleasure from her he could. Then in one quick move, he grabbed her hips and flipped her over onto her hands and knees.
Unbuttoning the folds of his breeches, he couldn’t contain his admiration for the sight before him. Bloody hell, she was beautiful. The curve of her buttocks fit perfectly against the palms of his hands. He teased his fingers over her hips then back down to the wet heat waiting for him.
She let out an impatient noise, tilting her hips back, trying to get closer to him.
He would have laughed if she hadn’t driven him mad with need for her.
No woman had ever stolen his will or mind away like this. She consumed him.
Gently, torturously, he rubbed the head of his cock along her opening then over the tight little nub. He stroked again and again until her hands had seized the blankets in tight fists and she glanced back over her shoulder. “Now!” she begged.
That one word sent him over the edge, he thrust his cock deep inside her, determined to claim her.
For despite everything else, a voice deep within him growled mine as he sank deeper into her sweet body.
She let out a gasp as he filled her, and then a moan of pure pleasure escaped her lips.
Slowly, oh, so slowly, he withdrew to the very tip then rammed in deep again. He wanted to claim her, to mark her as his own, and that primal part of him whispered that if he made this unbearably good for her, she would never desire another man but him.
In fact, her whole body would wish only one thing. The touch of his own.
His breathing grew ragged, and the hot, perfect feel of her wrapped tightly around him was too much. Increasing the pace, he tilted her hips, finding that magical spot inside her body.
She arched wildly as he stroked that secret place. “Yes, Andrew,” she cried. “Yes!”
He groaned. “Cleo, you’re driving me mad for you.”
Just as he uttered those words, she rolled her hips against his. Her muscles tightened around him, and
she let out a sob of pleasure, burying her face in the bed.
Those inner muscles of hers tightened around him again and again, a sign of her own heights. It drove him over the edge, and his entire world went wild with his release.
His hips thrust quickly against hers as the most intense wave of pleasure he’d ever known washed over him.
The moment it was over, he collapsed, his chest draping over her back.
Her arms wobbled, and she fell across the bed, taking him with her to form a pile of slightly sweaty, warm limbs.
Not wanting to press her harshly into the mattress with his weight, he rolled them onto their sides, his cock still in her body, allowing every inch of her, from her back to her toes, to rest against his front.
It was a glorious feeling. To his utter terror, it was the most glorious he had ever known.
Chapter 16
It was an unquestionable fact that London loved Cleo Duke. Every morning, scores of invitations arrived, whether they be to outings, to races, to walks in the park, to balls, to dinners. She was the height of popularity.
Ladies longed to have her in attendance, for she was as novel as a pineapple.
And Cleo was quite amused by it all.
She’d known that she’d be able to find a way to settle in somehow and that it wouldn’t be completely unbearable, her time in London. Actually, to her surprise, she quite enjoyed it. She’d thought that she would loathe all the simpleness of the people she was surrounded by, their narrow point of view. But in truth, many of them were great fun and had welcomed her with open arms.
She wondered if it was simply her assumptions about society that had led her to believe it would be a miserable time for her, because she was not miserable at all.
She did wonder if some of that had to do with the Earl of Rutherford’s company.
Andrew.
Well, if she was honest, she had a good idea that it was mostly Andrew which made everything so marvelous.
They’d spent every night together, lying before the fire, sprawled upon his bed, enjoying each other, spending hours in each other’s arms.