Lady Wallflower (Notorious Ladies of London Book 2)

by Scarlett Scott

  She laughed. “You are a scoundrel.”

  He was. No point in denying it. “I can do that for you later if you like, darling.”

  Nothing would please him more than tasting her. Licking her until she came on his tongue. The sensual promise of making her his, which had been haunting him since the day his eye had first fallen upon her naughty list, beckoned. Within reach—tempting. Taunting.

  Real.

  As real as the water pelting them. Her silken skirts and all her underpinnings were drooping fast as the rains continued to lash them. Another twirl, and her sodden hems tripped her. Decker caught her with ease when she would have pitched into the rosebushes, hauling her into his arms.

  She was deuced small, but all her layers were damned heavy when wet.

  “You do not need to carry me,” she objected. “I am perfectly capable of walking myself.”

  “Of course you are capable, but what manner of man would I be if I allowed my new wife to go toppling into the daisies on our wedding day?” he asked her, feeling an alarming surge of tenderness rushing inside him.

  “They are roses,” she corrected, sounding breathless.

  Of course he knew what the damned flowers were.

  But he liked that she was breathless.

  He wanted to make her more breathless.

  “I stand corrected.” He carried her through the rain, making his way back to the doors with as much haste as he could manage. “You have a choice to make, darling. Cream ice or kisses first?”

  “Decker!” Her soft exclamation did naughty things to the state of his cock. “Kisses, of course.”

  So, too, did her response.

  Stifling a groan, he managed to elbow and shoulder his way back into the house, where they made a dripping, saturated mess all over the carpets. Perhaps ruining them. He did not give a damn.

  “You can put me down now,” she said.

  “I can,” he agreed pleasantly, “but I am not going to.”

  “But surely I am too heavy! I insist you stop carrying me about as if I am a doll,” Jo carried on with her protesting.

  He was a man on a mission now. She wanted kisses first, and he intended to give them to her. “I have been waiting three bloody weeks to make you my wife, and now I find myself deuced reluctant to have you anywhere but in my arms.”

  Which was where she belonged.

  There and in his bed, of course.

  And anywhere else he could have her. Oh, the delicious possibilities. At long last, he could dispense with fucking his fist.

  He told himself that was the reason for the sense of rightness deep within him, that new, unexpected sensation of…what the hell was it? Contentment? Egad. That could not be it. He was simply so randy, he could not think straight.

  Decker increased his pace. The quicker he could get her to his chamber, the better.

  His servants were accustomed to his antics. If dinner parties in which foodstuffs were served upon naked women did not make the footmen blink an eye, their master carrying his new wife—the two of them soaked to the skin—was not cause for a second look. They passed a handful of domestics as he took them up the stairs two at a time. All lowered their gazes and pretended as if they had seen nothing amiss.

  “What will the staff think?” she asked, pressing her face into his sodden waistcoat as they passed a chamber maid who busied herself with righting a picture on the wall as they passed.

  “Who gives a damn?” he asked as he shouldered his way into his chamber at last and kicked the door closed at his back. “Believe me, they have seen far worse.”

  Wrong thing to say on your wedding day, you fucking arse.

  Jo stiffened in his arms, and as he gently lowered her to the carpets, her gaze was downcast. “Of course. How foolish of me to forget your reputation.”

  “Josie.” He caught her chin in his thumb and forefinger, gently forcing her to meet his eyes. “Look at me. I am far from a saint, as you know. I will not lie about who I am, who I have always been. I have never brought a lover here to my home, however. You need not fear that. This home is yours as much as it is mine, and no other woman has ever belonged here as you do.”

  He meant those words, to his core.

  His parties had been wild, but they had been mere diversion. Something to quell his boredom. His home was his haven, however. He did not bring women here to bed them, because he had no wish for the complication which would inevitably follow suit. Unlike most wealthy gentlemen, he did not seek lasting situations with the women he fucked. His affaires had always been discreet and short-lived—one night only had been his codicil ever since Nora.

  But Jo appeared unimpressed by his explanation. She remained unsmiling. “You do not have to justify yourself to me, Decker. I am more than aware of who you are.”

  All the lightness of their dance in the rain had vanished thanks to his cloddish misstep. He would have to revive it. Somehow. Inspiration came swiftly.

  There was a raindrop upon the fullness of her lower lip. He lowered his head and pressed his mouth to hers, stealing that drop. He cupped her face in his hands, taking his time, showing her with his lips how he would worship her. Gently at first, then deeper.

  She opened to him, their tongues mating. She tasted like the cake they had eaten at the wedding breakfast: orange sweetness. And she smelled like it too, only with familiar, floral notes that made his cock pitch a tent in his trousers. He groaned, angling her head, kissing her harder. He would make her forget all about thoughts of other women or his storied past. Today was not about any of that.

  It was about Decker and Jo.

  It was about him claiming her at bloody last.

  And tomorrow? whispered an insidious voice deep within him.

  Would he be tired of her? Would he have her once and never want her again, just as he had all the rest? The thought sent a pang of regret cutting swiftly through him, but he banished it.

  No time for worrying about what came after. They were bound to each other now. Nothing and no one—not even the Earl of Ravenscroft—could keep him from making love to her.

  Jo’s small hands settled on his cheeks, cupping his face, holding him to her. Such a ferocious woman. She had learned how to kiss over the course of their sinful interludes, and he was grateful for it. An apt pupil, his lady wife. He had far more to teach her.

  But first, their mouths were uniting. With other lovers, he had never taken so much time to woo or to savor—not since Nora. One time this evening was quite enough, thank you very much. And also, thank Christ Jo was nothing like her.

  Jo was…herself.

  A revelation.

  She was the majestic beauty of late spring’s promise realized. She was glorious blossoms and lush verdant grass and golden sun and delicious warmth after the dearth of cold, hideous winter.

  He gentled the kiss, reminding himself she was also a novice. His seduction of her had to proceed slowly, and with care. His lady may possess a wicked curiosity and a passionate nature, but she was also inexperienced.

  Decker lifted his head at last, dismayed to find his heart pounding.

  When was the last time a kiss had left him thus? He could not recall as he took her in a tender grasp and raised her hands to his lips for a reverent kiss on her knuckles. Even this part of her was somehow beautiful. Had he taken note of a woman’s knuckles before? Decker thought not.

  “I dare say I must get you out of your wet gown before you take a chill, my lady,” he said, deciding to test her boundaries. “What manner of lady’s maid would I be if I allowed you to remain in these soaked garments a moment longer?”

  Her kiss-stung lips were open, and her breaths were as ragged as his. “You are hardly a lady’s maid.”

  He kissed the tops of her hands. “But of course I am. I am a humble servant, here to tend to my mistress.” Decker turned her hands over, revealing the pale skin of her wrists, the delicate tracery of blue veins there. “How may I be of service to you, milady?” He kissed the vel
vet-soft flesh he had exposed. Once, twice. “You must be soaked to the skin.”

  And, he hoped, elsewhere also.

  He swallowed against another rush of lust, meeting her gaze.

  The gold in her eyes seemed more vibrant, her lashes thicker, her pupils wide onyx discs that gave her away.

  “Yes, I am quite drenched,” she said, her voice low and throaty. Sultry.

  Ah, hell. He was once more thinking of where else she was drenched. Thinking of at last stroking her slit, parting her folds…

  He raised his head, knowing he played a dangerous game. “Turn, my lady. Allow me to make you more comfortable.”

  She did as he asked, presenting him with the endless line of buttons on her gown. She had looked incredible in it, and when he had spoken his vows to her earlier in the church, he had been blasted with an incredible burst of pride that she was his.

  Not just a lady, an earl’s sister, a woman who had been born with all the legitimacy which had been denied him by his sire, but Lady Jo herself—quiet elegance, humble sophistication. She was not a raucous beauty. She was not the storm; she was the calm that came after it, when the birds sang once more and the rainbow arched over the shattered land.

  He swallowed yet another surge of emotion that was entirely unwanted. Hell, emotions? He was being disgustingly maudlin and quite unlike himself.

  His fingers were on her buttons now, and to his further dismay, he realized his hands were trembling. There was something sacred about this moment. He could not shake the feeling. He wanted to worship her. He was terrified of her. He needed her.

  Best to bury himself in pleasure, as he had learned a long time ago.

  Decker kissed her crown, inhaling the scent of her luscious, wet locks. Her coiffure was next to be undone. The rains had already done their part at dismantling the perfection she had presented for their wedding. He preferred her this way, however, rain-soaked and wild, rather than the poised lady he had wed.

  He kissed her ear next, running his tongue along the whorls there whilst his fingers played over the buttons, freeing them. Ten down and about a hundred of the little stubborn blighters to go.

  Jo held herself stiffly and still as her husband unhooked the buttons on her gown. As his lips caressed her ear, his tongue darting out to lap against her skin and incite those same flames of desire she had come to know all too well ever since she had been summoned to his office that day by his note telling her he had something of hers.

  And now she knew he had something else of hers in his possession. Something far more important than the list.

  Her heart.

  But she would not divulge that secret now. For now, she would live in the moment.

  How strange it felt to be a wife. Or, more precisely, to be Decker’s wife. To be married to the enigma at her back, the man whose tongue was flicking behind her ear, finding a new way to drive her to distraction.

  But even as his mouth and tongue worked over her, his hands never stopped. Those knowing fingers of his were moving, unhooking, sliding the buttons free of their moorings. The stiff silk bodice of her gown, adorned by roses and lace and pounds upon pounds of silver beads, gaped and slid down her arms, weighted by her damp skirts.

  They had danced in the rain.

  She had fallen beneath his spell even more as he had whirled her through his gardens in the rain. A Viennese waltz, just like the dance they had shared at Callie’s ball. He thought of everything. And then, his question—cream ice or kisses. How could she gird her heart against him when he insisted upon being so wonderful, so very much the opposite of every warning she had received from her loved ones?

  Decker brought her mind back to the present when his teeth nipped her throat, and then his tongue followed, soothing the sting. Heat unfurled within her, landing between her thighs in a persistent, pulsing ache. She wanted him so much. Too much.

  “You are quiet, my lady,” he observed against her neck. “Tell me how I may be of service to you. As your humble servant, it is my duty to see you satisfied.”

  Jo did not mistake his words. Decker was toying with her, playing a role, pretending to be her lady’s maid. Did the pretense heighten his pleasure? She could not be certain. She was not even sure if it heightened her own pleasure. All she did know was that she was completely in his thrall. And she was going to play this game with him, see where it led them. For the first time in her life, she was free, truly, unutterably free.

  What did she have to lose, when she had already lost everything else of consequence, aside from her maidenhead itself?

  “My gown,” she said, catching her breath. “It is heavy and soaked. Please help me to take it off.”

  “With pleasure, my lady,” he growled against her skin.

  And then his fingers were moving with heightened fury, traveling down her spine. The tapes on her bustle went slack, and the entire dress, along with the wire and linen shaper beneath, fell to the floor in a rush. She was clad in nothing more than her corset, chemise, drawers, and stockings.

  But he was already making short work of the knot and lacings on her corset. In the next breath, they were undone. Her undergarments were suddenly loose. His hands clamped on her waist, spinning her around to face him with so much haste, she nearly lost her balance.

  Perhaps it was because he was making her knees turn into aspic?

  She swayed, her hands planting on his broad shoulders for purchase, holding herself upright. He was so handsome, towering over her with his brooding masculine beauty, his wavy, dark hair falling rakishly over his brow, his bright-blue eyes searing her where she stood.

  He was still wearing all his wedding finery. Coat, waistcoat, shirt, neck cloth tied neatly around his throat. He was the picture of a fine English gentleman. So gorgeous, he made her ache.

  He grasped her corset then, unhooking her before tossing the undergarment to the floor. Make that only her chemise, drawers, and stockings.

  Oh dear.

  “Your underpinnings are damp, my lady,” he said, his voice low.

  Pure, unadulterated seduction.

  “Yours are wet as well,” she ventured, finding her tongue and her own bravery at last. “Mayhap I should help you to divest yourself of your soaked garments.”

  He shook his head, his gaze lowering to her lips. “I do not know about that. A lady aiding her servant? It is not done. As your loyal lady’s maid, I cannot allow you to assist me. To do so would be wrong.”

  His words heightened her awareness. Suddenly, the allure of the game he was playing with her became clear. There was something delightfully exciting about pretending, about playing roles. She had already been wild for him, but pretending he was her servant and that what they were doing was wicked and forbidden, made her want him so much more.

  Indeed, she was desperate for him.

  “I insist,” she said. “It is not fair for you to be soaked to the bone. You must remove some of your layers. Let me aid you.”

  He inclined his head, the look he gave her enough to set her drawers aflame. And herself. And the entire chamber. It would all be engulfed in fire, burning down, all around them, before this was over.

  “Assist me as you will, my lady,” he told her.

  He did not need to offer the invitation twice. Her hands took control of her mind, doing all the work for her, investigating his broad shoulders and hard chest before finding the twain ends of his coat and pushing them down. Next, her fingers discovered the buttons of his waistcoat.

  She plucked each one free.

  His shirt? Gone.

  His trousers were next. But his chest briefly distracted her. Jo had never witnessed a naked masculine chest. And Decker’s? It was positively sinful.

  “Touch me, Josie,” he rasped, his voice low. “I want your hands upon me. I have spent the last weeks dreaming of nothing else.”

  He had been dreaming of her?

  Eagerness made her hands tremble as she did as he asked. His abdomen first. A tentative caress up thos
e ridges of muscle, over the fine trail of dark hair that led to the waistband of his trousers. His skin was warm and damp and softer than she had imagined. He inhaled sharply as she glided her hands higher, to the delineations of his chest.

  Curiosity sent her fingertips over the flat discs of his nipples, so unlike her own. A groan rumbled deep in his throat, and she absorbed the vibration. Jo stopped, her hands still on him.

  His hands covered hers then, guiding her higher, over the protrusion of his clavicle, to his shoulders. How wonderful he felt, deliciously masculine and all hers. She had dreamt of this too, of being alone with him, of being free to touch and be touched. Of no longer dithering about and observing propriety.

  The last three weeks of waiting had been utter torture. Julian had watched her like a thief he suspected planned upon filching the familiar silver. When she had not been within his sight, a servant had attended her. Not even the birth of her nephew had diminished his brotherly determination to make certain she made it to her wedding day without a further hint of scandal.

  “If you keep looking at me that way, I am going to ravish you here and now,” Decker said suddenly.

  Yes, please.

  “You do not know what you are asking for, darling,” he said, his eyes darkening.

  Oh dear. Had she said that aloud? It would seem she had.

  “Why do we need to wait?” she dared to ask next.

  After all, they were married now. There was no more sneaking about. Nothing that happened between them from this moment forward was wrong.

  “I intended to woo you.” He lowered his forehead to hers. “I wanted to give you some time to adjust to your new household.”

  At the moment, she did not give a fig about the household. All she cared about was the man. His lips were near, his breath feathering over her mouth.

  “Decker?”

  His stare was intent, burning into hers. “Yes, darling?”

  “I do not think I require time to adjust.”

  “Damnation, woman. I am not certain if you are a gift or a curse.” His mouth crushed hers in the next second.

  His lips worked over hers with voracious precision yet reverent tenderness. That tenderness told her he believed the former rather than the latter. His fingers swept over her, her remaining undergarments falling away until she was clad in nothing but her stockings.