Never Kiss a Rake

  She passed the storeroom, glancing in longingly. It had usually served as the housekeeper’s bedroom, but in the intervening years it had simply been turned into a repository for cast-off chairs. The thought of climbing those endless flights of stairs made her want to weep.

  She could manage it for a month. She’d promised her sisters it would be no more than that, and she never broke her promises, at least not to the people most important to her. If she didn’t find any proof of his guilt or innocence within the month she would move on to Captain Morgan, disappear from London like a wraith.

  Right now she was so tired she thought if she stopped to rest on the narrow stairs she’d probably go to sleep on her feet. She finally made it back to her room, kicking off her shoes, stripping off her clothes, and washing thoroughly in the now-tepid water. Her head ached, and she unfastened her braids, letting her hair hang down her back as she pulled on her cotton nightdress.

  It had been a mistake to bring it, as well as her undergarments. They were remnants of her past life, silk and the softest linen, decorated in the finest lace. She’d told Emma, who worked on the laundry with the new girls, that they’d been gifts from her old mistress. But they reminded her of the life that was gone forever, the loss of her father, the loss of safety for her sisters.

  She climbed into bed. She ought to rebraid her hair, but she simply didn’t have the energy. She needed to sleep, now, immediately. She’d deal with tangled hair in the morning.

  Two hours later she was still staring wide-eyed into the shadows, ready to weep with frustration. The full moon coming in her attic window was beautiful; it was also fiendishly bright. She was going to have to find something to tack up, to blot out the light that shone directly into her eyes. She’d even tried getting up and dragging her narrow iron bed out of the direct path, but that didn’t help.

  When she heard the clock chime three she pushed up, sitting on the side of the bed. It was chilly now, the bright warmth of the sun having worn off, and she shivered as she reached for her knitted black shawl, wrapping it around her shoulders. Warm milk was a well-known cure for sleeplessness. In order to get warm milk she’d have to climb down five flights of stairs and somehow get a fire started in Mrs. Harkin’s massive cookstove, hope to God there was milk in the larder, and then hope the home remedy was a cure.

  She closed her eyes again with a weary groan. She couldn’t do it, any more than she could lie back and fall asleep. All she could think about was the slender book in Kilmartyn’s bedroom. It haunted her. If she just dared to creep down the one flight of stairs and fetch it then she’d be able to sleep. Her entire future might very well rest with that book, whatever it was. It would contain proof, she was sure of it. Proof of his guilt or his innocence was the question, and she told herself she didn’t care. She simply had to find out, before this… this weakness of hers got entirely out of hand.

  It would be perfectly safe. The earl was out for the night—if he returned unexpectedly Bertie would make enough noise to alert her. She was a fool to miss this chance.

  Her entire body ached. She was slowly, slowly getting used to the unaccustomed physical work the disaster of a house demanded, and if she wanted things done to her satisfaction then she had no choice but to demonstrate. Her wrists stung, her back ached, her legs throbbed, and her head hurt from all the unanswered questions. She couldn’t do much about the other issues, but she could find out the truth that had so far eluded her. And once she did, she could be gone from this house in an hour or less, never having to see Kilmartyn again.

  The shawl she’d draped over her nightdress left her decently covered if she happened to run into another servant. The moon was setting, plunging everything into darkness, and she lit the candle beside her bed. There was no way she was going to light the gaslights for her clandestine adventure.

  It would be harmless enough. If anyone caught her she would simply say she was in search of laudanum to help her sleep. She despised the stuff—she’d been forced to drink it when she’d been so ill with smallpox, and she’d vowed never to touch it again. She’d seen how it affected people.

  People could be dangerously fond of their laudanum, she knew from bitter experience. Her mother was one who had a great affection for it, and when she misplaced it she reacted with all the sweetness of a demented virago. Her employers might not appreciate that their new housekeeper was rummaging in search of drugs. Lady Kilmartyn would do anything she could to get rid of her, and this would give her the perfect excuse.

  That was better than the truth, however, and as a transgression it was relatively minor. And that was only if she was caught.

  Pausing by the stairs, she looked down the three landings to the foyer below. She could see Bertie’s feet where he slept, proof that Kilmartyn had found another bed to spend the night in. And she was very glad of it, she assured herself as she headed down the darkened hallway to his bedroom.

  She blew out the candle and opened the door, slipping inside and leaning back against it. Her heart was thudding, which was ridiculous. There was no one to see her, no one to guess at her nighttime activities. She was safe.

  It took a moment for her eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness. She could see the outline of furniture in the shadows—the huge old bed, the chair, the small table. She could either relight the candle or go by sense of feel, which was going to make it impossible to read the ledger or whatever it was. She could always take the thing away with her and return it at first light. If Kilmartyn was spending the night in riotous licentiousness he was hardly likely to drag himself out of bed at a decent hour. While of course she had no firsthand knowledge of sexual congress she imagined it could be quite exhausting. Not that Kilmartyn, with his sleek, almost catlike grace, seemed overly energetic. He’d be more likely to provide stamina, which should have seemed rather unpleasant. It didn’t.

  She moved into the center of the room, carefully avoiding the chair that was out of place. She bumped into the small bedside table, and cursed beneath her breath as she steadied it. Her fumbling hands found the drawers, and she pulled one open, reaching inside. Her fingers closed around a small glass vial. Laudanum, no doubt, her excuse for her nighttime ramblings if anyone should catch her. She breathed a sigh of relief, pulling it out and tucking it in her pocket, and then turned to the huge dark cavern of the bed.

  She sank to her knees on the floor beside it, pushing up the disordered covers, sliding her questing hands under the mattress. And then it hit her—the covers were disordered, when she herself had made the bed. Her fingers found the journal just as hands clamped around her wrists, pulling them free, and she felt herself hauled through the air to land on a hard, male body. A moment later she was beneath him, and he was very heavy, pressing her down into the bed. She opened her mouth to scream.

  “I wouldn’t make a sound if I were you, my dear Miss Greaves.” His voice was a soft, dangerous purr in the darkness. “You wouldn’t want the other servants to find out what you were doing in the middle of the night. Not if you want to maintain discipline.”

  For a moment she was completely frozen in horror as her brain rushed to remember her excuse. “I was looking for laudanum,” she said in not much more than a whisper.

  She could feel the laugh shake his body as it pressed against her. He was huge, overwhelming, warm skin everywhere. He was so solid, not soft like her at all, not soft like anyone she’d ever been close to. His chest was hard against her, his stomach flat, his… Shock hit her, as she realized what else she was feeling. She shouldn’t even know what it was, but she did. That didn’t feel like anything she’d seen on the Elgin Marbles.

  “So my new housekeeper has a fondness for drugs?” he murmured in her ear, his breath as warm as his skin. “You should have told me sooner. I could find all sorts of things for you to try.”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she said, holding herself very still. Not that she had much choice. He was so much bigger than she was, so much stronger, with all that hot, sleek fles
h. And she certainly didn’t want to do anything that would put her in closer contact with that part of him. “And I was in pain.”

  His soft laugh should have annoyed her. Instead it only increased that treacherous stirring deep and low inside her. “I’m sure you were, my precious. You don’t mind me calling you my precious, do you? I tend to use endearments to anyone who’s lying beneath me in my bed.”

  “I’d just as soon not be in your bed, my lord.” Her voice came out slightly strangled but there was nothing she could do about it.

  He laughed again. “No, I imagine so. Don’t worry, my pet. There are plenty of other places we could do it.”

  “Do what?” she said, mystified, before she realized what he meant. She started to struggle then, not caring what part she hit. “Let me up.”

  He caught both her wrists in one hand and hauled them above her head, his hips pinned hers, and his legs trapped her own. “I didn’t invite you here,” he pointed out. “You simply waltzed in, in the middle of the night, and I’m never a man to turn down such a generous offer.”

  “I told you, I was looking for laudanum!” She was trapped beneath him, even more thoroughly than she had been before, and she knew she should be terrified. She couldn’t decipher what she was feeling. Fear was part of it, certainly. But so was a strange sense of longing she didn’t quite recognize. Her breasts were pressed against him, and they ached. Everything was aching in an entirely different way than it had been before. Her entire body felt hot, restless, edgy.

  “Beneath my mattress?” His voice was like a purr. “I promise you, my very dear Miss Greaves, I don’t hide my vices. I keep them in plain sight for any curious housekeeper to come across.”

  “Your laudanum was in the drawer,” she said before she could consider the wisdom of it.

  “I don’t like laudanum. It’s a watered-down drug for ladies. Is that what’s digging into my hip?” Before she realized it he’d reached between their bodies, his hands brushing against her stomach as he searched for the pilfered bottle, and heat and shock exploded through her. He found her pocket and pulled out the bottle, holding it up to the tiny shaft of moonlight that speared in through the curtains. And then he really did laugh, so hard that he released her, falling against her, convulsed in such mirth that she was able to shove him off her, almost able to escape before he caught one wrist and hauled her back.

  “That’s not laudanum, my precious. That’s something else entirely, and you would have been very sorry if you’d tried to drink it.”

  She wasn’t going to ask him. Damn it, she wasn’t going to say a word. “Then what is it?”

  “It’s an interesting oil from the Far East that helps intensify certain… pleasures. I’d be more than happy to demonstrate, but with such a puritanical virgin I think a simple fucking would be more than enough for the first time.”

  She froze at his offhand words. She tried to speak, but when the words came they were shamefully weak. “Are you going to rape me?”

  “Of course not. I wouldn’t have to. I could have you eating out of my hand if I set my mind to it.”

  She ground her teeth. “I am not a virgin, I am not puritanical, we are not going to have any kind of… carnal debauchery at all. Now let me up.”

  He didn’t laugh at her this time. He fell back against the mattress with a weary sigh, still holding on to her wrist. “Now that’s the damnable problem, my angel. I’m all set to play the villain, have my disgusting, delicious way with you to both your pleasure and mine, and you say something completely adorable like ‘carnal debauchery.’ How is a man to react to something like that?”

  “He’s supposed to release me.”

  “I ought to,” he said. “If I had any scrap of decency left in me.” He turned his face, and she could see him in the shaft of moonlight, his skin white gold. It was then she realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Realized that he wasn’t wearing anything at all. “Fortunately,” he added, “any decency is long gone.” And he pulled her over on top of him.

  “If you keep this up I’m going to get dizzy.” This time she managed a satisfactorily dry, cautious tone.

  He put his lips to her ear, and she could feel his hot breath against her skin. “You already are dizzy, my dear Miss Greaves. Your heart is pounding, your pulses are racing, and your nipples are hard. I’m willing to bet my sweet little virgin is wet.”

  She frowned, ignoring the nipple part. “Wet?”

  “Between your legs. It’s a sign of arousal, your body readying itself for mine.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “That’s delicious,” he corrected her. “Shall I see?” And his hand slid down her thigh to the hem of her nightdress. She slapped at him, but he simply caught that hand with her other. “This isn’t going to hurt, precious. I just want a taste. A forfeit, since you were the one who decided to come to my bed.”

  “Your bedroom,” she corrected, “and I told you, I was looking for—”

  “Yes, you told me, and I don’t believe you.”

  “Let me up,” she said fiercely.

  “Not yet. I require two things before I release you.”

  “Name them.” She would make a bargain with the devil to get away from him. Before she didn’t want to leave at all.

  The bed was so warm, and soft beneath her. It smelled wonderful, of spice and wood and Kilmartyn, some scent all his own, and it would be so easy to lie back and let him do what he wanted. There was even a certain sense to it—if she had relations with him he might lower his guard. It wasn’t as if she ever planned to marry—the loss of her virtue would be no loss at all, and it would slake her endless curiosity.

  She was mad! She needed to get away from him—these thoughts were insane.

  Before she realized what he was doing he’d slid one arm around her waist, pulling her against him, and his other hand moved up to her throat, his long fingers cupping her chin, stroking. He moved closer, blotting out the fitful light, and she thought, now I am going to be kissed, really kissed, and she closed her eyes, preparing herself.

  Instead, his mouth moved to her ear, and his teeth bit down on her earlobe. Instead of pain, warmth flooded her body, and her eyes flew open again. “Just so you know there are other, surprising places that can be almost as much fun as lips,” he whispered, before his mouth closed over hers.

  She’d been expecting the kind of kiss she’d given him that first night when he had passed out, the pressing of lips against lips, with the possible addition of some excited grinding. This was entirely different.

  His mouth merely brushed hers, so softly it was feather light, and she knew a moment of disappointment. Until he did it again with a mere touch, so tantalizing that her body began to rise to meet his. She kept herself still, as his lips traveled over her jaw, her cheek, across her closed eyes, and then back to her mouth again, so softly, like a butterfly exploring a flower. And she was forgetting to breathe, entranced.

  She could feel his breath against her, and then the totally surprising touch of his tongue against her lips. Why? But his hand was still cupping her chin, holding her gently, and his long finger caressed her jaw. She automatically opened at his urging, just as his mouth covered hers again, his tongue swept inside her, wet and hot and seeking, and she knew she should be disgusted, knew it as her tongue slid against his, tasting him. This was what she’d been waiting for, though she hadn’t known it. This was what she had needed.

  It wasn’t a kiss of domination, strange as it was, it was a kiss of discovery, of tasting and touching and teasing, of utter joy and promises of oh, so much more, and she sank into it, danced into it, reveling in its unexpected delight. She didn’t want it to end. She couldn’t breathe, and she didn’t care. He was everywhere, all around her in the warm bed. He’d slid his hands down to her shoulders, holding her, and then they moved down her arms, and she didn’t care. She wanted him to touch her, touch her everywhere. In the darkness her scars were invisible, in the darkness this beautiful man wa
nted her, and she would endure anything for the bizarre glory of this deep, draining kiss. She made a low moan of protest as he lifted his head, and she realized that at some point she’d reached up to clutch his shoulders. Naked shoulders, strong and well muscled, naked as the rest of him. He was looking at her now, breathing heavily, a surprised expression on his face. “Well,” he said in rough voice. “Well, now.”

  Before she could say anything he kissed her again, no teasing this time, just a hungry demand, and she felt her body tremble with longing that she didn’t understand, could only feel. She wanted this man. She wanted to stay here, lie beneath him, have him push between her legs and take her as a man took a woman. It was wrong, it was selfish, and it didn’t matter. Everything about her ached with need, and she slid her hands up his arms, clutching his shoulders, arching into him. She wanted to tell him not to stop, it didn’t matter if she couldn’t breathe, if he was crushing her, and she felt his hands sliding down her legs.

  Her nightdress had ridden up, bunching around her thighs, and he moved his hand and pressed it, low and flat across her stomach. She liked that too, the warmth from his big hand filling her, soothing her, and for the barest moment she relaxed, sliding into the wonderful feeling. Safe. Wanted, when it seemed no one had ever wanted her. Protected.

  And then he moved his hand down between her legs.