The Spinster and the Rake

by Anne Stuart

“I love you,” she repeated patiently. “You asked me to come, and I did.”

  “And would you get into that bed with me if I asked you to? Knowing I won’t marry you?” he demanded harshly.

  “Yes.”

  With an explosive oath he rose, stalking across the room. “Where the hell is Tilden?” he demanded of no one in particular. He turned back to the astonished Gillian. “Put your cloak back on. Tilden is taking you home. Now.”

  “But I don’t wish to go home,” she said in bewilderment, not moving. “You promised me a lobster dinner and a hand of piquet.”

  “Among other things,” he agreed bitterly, taking her wrists and pulling her to her feet. “Well, I’ve thought better of it. You’re going home before any more harm is done, and no one will be any the worse for it.”

  “But I want to stay here with you!” she cried. “You took Letty, why not me? You’ve never lied to me, you know. I thought . . . I thought that you found me not unattractive. Don’t you want me?” The tears that had been hovering in her bright blue eyes spilled over and ran down her pale cheeks, and with a curse Marlowe pulled her into his arms.

  “Dear God, of course I want you,” he murmured into her hair. “I’ve never wanted anyone so much in my life. And it’s because of that that I’m sending you away. I don’t want to ruin your life as well as my own.”

  “If you send me away you’ll ruin my life,” she said, and reaching up, she put her mouth on his.

  He was unyielding, his mouth like marble, and she started to draw back, stricken, when he suddenly yanked her to him, cradling her head in one large hand, and took over the kiss.

  It was . . . astonishing. His other kisses had aroused her, excited her, twisted her with longing. This was something entirely different, so much more powerful than anything she could have imagined. He tipped her head back, slanted his mouth across her, and pushed her mouth open with his, shocking her with the feel of his tongue. She jerked, startled, but he held her tighter, sliding his arm around her waist, drawing her up against him as he kissed her. She wanted this. She didn’t care what he did with her, she wanted whatever he would give her, for as long as it could last, and she put her arms around his neck, rising up into his kiss, using her own tongue in shy imitation of his.

  He groaned and lifted her so that she fit more closely to him. He was much stronger than she had realized, and she could feel the insistent push of that part of him she wasn’t supposed to know existed, pressing against her skirts, and another frightened thrill sliced through her veins as she held on, letting him do what he wanted, wanting more. She was wicked, wanton, and she didn’t care.

  And then to her horror he set her back on the floor, trying to pull away. “You need to get out of here, Gilly-flower,” he said hoarsely. “You’re not this kind of woman.”

  She didn’t release her hold on him. “I want to be. I’ve spent my whole life doing just as I ought, taking care of everyone else. I want tonight. Just for once, I want something for me.”

  “Oh, Christ,” he muttered under his breath. Before she could realize what he was planning he’d scooped her up in his arms and was carrying her toward the shadowy back of the room, to the ornate bed that she’d dreamed about, setting her down on the soft mattress and then stepping back.

  “Should I . . . should I undress?” Gilly asked, wishing there wasn’t a slight quaver in her voice.

  He didn’t move. “Is there any way I can get rid of you?” he asked in a harsh voice, and it felt like a knife to the heart.

  She moved fast, rolling to the far side of the bed and leaping off it, trying to keep the sting of tears from her eyes. She stood still, staring at him across the rumpled bed. “Don’t be absurd, Lord Marlowe,” she said with a brittle laugh. “I certainly didn’t mean to importune you. I’ll leave.” She started moving away from the bed, away from him, when he caught her.

  “No, you won’t. Damn me for a selfish, rutting bastard, but I can’t let you go.” He pulled her against him, and she struggled, just slightly, until she realized her dress had come loose and was sagging about her shoulders. He’d somehow managed to unlace the complicated thing with the deftness of a master. This time when he loosened his hold her dress fell away from her, pooling on the floor, and she stood in front of him in her stays and shift, frozen.

  He was just as adept with the corset, stripping it off and then lifting her onto the bed clad only in her shift. He reached for her foot, taking off her kidskin dancing slipper and tossing it to one side, then removing the other, leaving the stocking that were tied to her thighs in place. “Lie back,” he said in a low voice.

  Automatically she did what he told her. “Do I get to keep this on?” she asked, hopefully.

  His smile was slow, wicked, as he shook his head. “I just want to enjoy taking them off you.”

  He slid his jacket from his shoulders with an ease that belied its excellent tailoring, tossing it to the floor so that it settled on top of her discarded gown, following with his waistcoat and shoes. He pulled his shirt free from his pantaloons, and then he stripped it off, leaving her face to face with the first male chest she had seen without clothing, and she took in a breath.

  He was beautiful. There was no other word for it. He had broad shoulders, muscled arms, and oh, my heavens he had hair on his chest. Just a small amount in the middle that led down his stomach to disappear into his waistband, and she stared at him in shock.

  “You have hair!” she said stupidly, wanting to touch it. Would it be rough, or soft? But she shouldn’t touch him—he was the one who was supposed to do the touching, wasn’t he?

  “What an innocent you are,” he said with a soft laugh. “Haven’t you ever seen a man without a shirt before?”

  “Farm workers,” she said. “From a distance. I didn’t realize . . .” She’d never seen the outline of hair on the Greek statues she’d studied so assiduously when she thought no one would notice. Apart from that he seemed to be built along similar, beautiful lines. And then she remembered that other part of the statues that had held her attention, which clearly differed from Marlowe’s body.

  He reached for fastenings of his trousers, and she couldn’t help it, she closed her eyes. She heard his soft laugh, and the mattress dipped beneath his weight. His mouth closed over hers, and her fear vanished. All she needed was the warmth of his skin against hers and she had no doubt.

  He pulled her down, beneath him, as his mouth brushed against her skin, her eyelids, cheekbones, back across her lips as one hand tangled in her hair, managing to divest her of hairpins with the same economy of motion.

  “You must have a lot of practice at this,” she said, trying to sound normal beneath the hitching of her breath.

  “You’ll thank me for that later,” he whispered, moving his mouth to her ear, breathing against it, and then to her shock, he bit into her earlobe, and a shiver arched through her body.

  He moved down, slowly, his warm, damp breath warming her through the tissue-thin shift, and she needed to hold onto something. She tried to dig her hands into the linen sheets, but even in the shadows he must have had a preternatural sense of what she was doing, because he caught her wrists and placed her hands on his shoulders. His warm, bare shoulders.

  “If you want to hold onto something you should hold onto me,” he whispered And then he touched her breasts, not gently, cupping them, rubbing against the center until she felt herself harden against him, felt the warmth of longing curl deep in her belly, and she was panting, tilting her head back, and closing her eyes. The sensation was exquisite, strong and delicate at the same time, and she was restless, needing more, not sure what she needed.

  Until his mouth covered one breast through the thin batiste, wet and hot and seeking, his tongue rubbing against the hardened nub, and she let out a helpless little moan.

  “You like that, Gil
ly-flower?” he murmured. “That’s good, because I like it, too.” He blew on the damp cloth that covered her breast, and she shivered in reaction. He caught the loose neckline of her shift, and before she realized what he was doing he’d ripped it in half, down to the hemline, pushing it away from her body, and then his mouth was on her skin, and he was sucking at one breast while his fingers plucked the other.

  He was kneeling between her legs, and she realized with mixed relief and regret that he still had his britches on. Would they stay on? Probably not, not if she was going to be naked.

  “You have perfect breasts,” he breathed against her. “Just right for my mouth.” He licked at her other breast before taking it into his mouth, and she arched her back slightly, searching for something she couldn’t define. His arms slid beneath her, and he rolled her across the bed, so that she lay facing him, with no choice but to meet his eyes, dark with desire. Desire for her. He took one of her hands from his shoulder and brought it to the center of his chest, letting it rest against the soft crinkle of hair. His nipples were hard, too, and she wondered if she was supposed to lick him as well.

  “I . . . I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” she said haltingly.

  Again that devastating smile, devoid of his usual mockery. “You just have to lie back and enjoy yourself. This is your night. But you’re going to have to get used to things.” He covered her hand with his, and moved it down his chest, his warm, flat belly, to his breeches, and then he placed it against that un-statue-like bulge, and it was bigger than before. It was huge, a rod of iron beneath his pants, and she shivered in sudden fear.

  “Are you going to hurt me?” she whispered, unable to hide her trepidation.

  He slid her hand up and down his shaft, a slow, sensuous caress that seemed to have the unfortunate result of making him even harder, bigger.

  “A little bit, I’m afraid,” he said. “I’m told it always hurts the first time, but I plan to make up for that.”

  “All . . . right,” she agreed, still game but slightly doubtful. She’d felt pain before—she’d broken her leg falling from her horse when she was thirteen, and it had hurt like the dickens, and she’d once accidentally cut herself on a gardening tool and needed the cut sewed up like a ripped piece of fabric. She’d survived that. She could survive this.

  She let her fingers wrap around him beneath the material, and his eyes glazed slightly as he let out a soft curse. She immediately yanked her hand back. “Did I hurt you?”

  His laugh was unsteady. “No. But for some reason my usual iron control seems to have abandoned me, and I want to make certain you reach pleasure before I come.”

  She almost asked him what he meant, but shyness stopped her. She would understand it when he was done with her. He would hold her and kiss her, and they would talk. That’s what her mother said made the whole messy business bearable, but she wasn’t sure she trusted her mother. She wanted more than cuddlings and kisses. She wanted his body taking hers, changing hers, whether it was for this night or for longer. He would forget, but she would always know she belonged to him. She had told him she loved him, and she wasn’t the kind of person who loved easily. He’d warned her, and she had no illusions.

  He was watching her. “What are you thinking about?”

  “My mother.”

  He rolled onto his back with a weak laugh. “Good God, that’s the most ghastly thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “My mother told me this was messy and unpleasant, but that I’d like the holding part afterwards. But I’m not sure she was right. Because if the holding part was the part that mattered, why do the other thing?”

  He moved back, pushing her down on the mattress, the light of amusement still in his eyes. “Your mother was wrong. Oh, it’s messy, and undignified, and wet . . .”

  “Wet?” she interrupted in confusion.

  “Definitely wet,” he purred. “And if you do it right you no longer have any control over your body.”

  She frowned. “I’m always in control.”

  “Not tonight. Not when I make you come.”

  There was that word again. “What do you mean, ‘come’?” she said.

  “I’ll show you.” He moved over her, blotting out the dim light, and she had the sudden feeling she was past the point of no return. Then again, she’d reached that point when she’d stepped into her carriage that night.

  He was so big, looming over her, that it should have frightened her, and nervousness danced across her skin, but stronger still was the desire to reach up to him, to be absorbed by him, sinking into him so that there was nothing left of her.

  She could feel his hand moving across her skin, sure and deft in the darkness, slightly calloused, not like the soft hands of the gentlemen she had danced with, not like her uncle or cousin Bertie. His touch was like nothing she’d ever felt, and she gave a soft whimper of pleasure as he moved over her stomach. Down, down, until he slid between her legs, and she jerked in shock.

  “What . . ?” she stammered. “That’s not what you’re supposed to do!”

  “Who’s the expert at this?” he said in a low, beguiling voice. “You’re just lucky I don’t go use my mouth this time. It’s something I particularly like, but I’ve decided you’re in for enough surprises already.”

  Use his mouth? He was using his mouth, sucking at her breasts with deliciously animal intent. That couldn’t be right either, but it had felt so wonderful she hadn’t objected. This part of her, that he was touching, was another matter.

  “Stop worrying,” he whispered, brushing his lips across hers, and his fingers slid through the embarrassing dampness between her legs, moving the moisture around and around until she found her body arching against the mattress.

  “That’s right,” he murmured softly, and she felt him push a finger inside her, stretching her, sliding through the wetness, doing what he would soon do with the rest of his body. It was strange, uncomfortable, but she had wanted this, and when he pushed two fingers inside her she made a shocked noise.

  “This isn’t going to work,” she gasped, and he laughed softly.

  “It always does.” He touched her, the pad of his thumb pressing, rubbing, and she cried out at the sudden, electrifying sensation.

  His too long hair almost hid his face in the shadows, and he pressed his mouth against her cheek as he continued the slow, deliberate rubbing against her, all the while he kept moving his fingers, stretching her.

  It was strange, unsettling, and she squirmed, pushing her feet against the mattress as her body grew hot, and then cold, and then strangely hotter still, and her skin began to prickle. “I don’t . . .” she gasped.

  “You do,” he said, and she exploded, lost in sensation, frozen, trembling, crying out until he pulled her against him, pushing her face against his warm shoulder to quiet her sobs.

  He held her for a long time as slowly, slowly her soul began to return to her body, She was still shaking, and she knew her face was wet with tears, but she simply burrowed closer to him, hiding, as he held her, stroked her, whispered soft, inconsequential words in her ear full of love and praise. “That’s my sweet darling,” he said, kissing her tear damp cheek. “You’ll survive.”

  She wasn’t quite certain of that, or even if she wanted to, but she took his word for it. She lay tucked up against him, limp with reaction, unable to move, to talk, and she heard his soft laugh. “And that, my love is what it means to come.”

  She tried to say something, but nothing came out. When it finally did all she could manage was a weak “oh, my.”

  He pushed her onto her back, and she looked up at him as he loomed over her, moving between her legs. She could feel his skin against her thighs, and she knew he’d discarded his breeches at some point though she had no idea when. She considered looking down, then thought she’d better not. This enti
re endeavor seemed fraught with difficulties already, and she was better off not knowing.

  He moved over her, his eyes glittering in the darkness, his hand between her legs again, and her sensitive flesh jumped. “My turn, Gilly-flower,” he whispered. “I’ll try not to hurt you.”

  She could hardly protest, not after the astonishing thing he had done for her, so she braced herself, closing her eyes tight, waiting for the pain.

  He didn’t move. “Open your eyes, love.”

  She didn’t want to, but when he called her “love” she would do anything for him, on the slight, unlikely chance that he meant it. “Relax,” he said, “or I may have to tickle you.”

  For some reason that made her laugh, and her body loosened. It was no longer his hand between her legs, but that part of him, hard and blunt, pushing against her, and for a moment she froze, then made her muscles relax once more, as he pushed inside her, slowly, slowly. She wanted to close her eyes again, so he wouldn’t see her distress, but she couldn’t look away from him despite the burning sensation. His hands were bracing his body above hers, and she reached out to hold his arms, hold on to him, as he slowly forced his way into her body. She was prepared for the ghastly part, the horrible, impossible part, but when he was finally, fully inside her, his body against her, the man-part inside her, she knew she’d survive.

  He held very still, but she could feel his arms were like iron, trembling slightly as he fought for control. “Did I hurt you?”

  She was feeling oddly emotional, but she strove for calm. “It’s not as bad as a broken leg,” she said judiciously.

  He laughed, and she felt it deep inside her, the oddest sensation, and she felt her body begin to relax around his invading one. The burning feeling was fading fast, replaced by something else.

  “Do you want to continue?”

  She knew how much it cost him to ask her that. Knew that if she said no he would withdraw, stop what he was doing. And if he stopped, she would die. “Yes, please,” she said politely.