His finger wandered down, lightly tracing the undercurve of her breast and then skimming over her skin to her other breast. She breathed shallowly, the very lightness of his touch making her tremble with need.
“Your nipples are pink,” he whispered, brushing over the tip. Her nipples were so tight they ached. “But they deepen to rose as they come erect. I wonder if I sucked them if they would turn red like cherries?”
She closed her eyes, feeling that one point of contact, so slight and so erotic. This wasn’t what she’d expected when he’d declared his intent. She thought he would act quickly, consummate his desire in fast, hard moves.
Instead this was a slow, unhurried seduction.
His finger was wandering down over her ribs, gliding over her belly, circling her navel. She sucked in her tummy; the touch was almost tickling.
“So soft,” he crooned. “Like velvet.”
He was trailing lower, and her whole attention was focused on that finger and where it was headed.
“Spread your legs,” he murmured.
Her heart leaped in alarm. “I… I . . .”
“Beatrice,” he said darkly, “spread your legs for me.”
Maybe it was because her eyes were closed—if they’d been open, if she could see him looking at her so intimately, she wouldn’t have been able to do it. But as it was, she widened her thighs.
His finger dipped into her maiden hair, stroking through it. “So pretty, so sweet. I wonder what you taste like.”
And something touched her tenderly below her maiden hair, and it was soft and wet and most definitely not his finger.
“Reynaud!” she cried.
“Shh,” he whispered, his breath blowing across damp, excited flesh. “Quiet, now.”
She bit her lips, her hands clutching anxiously at the bedclothes.
His tongue probed her folds, stroking and licking. He was so close he must be able to smell her, to taste her, and she struggled between appalled horror and trembling delight.
“Do you like this?” he murmured. His lips brushed her with every word.
“I . . .”
He parted her with his thumbs and blew softly. “Do you, Beatrice?”
“Oh, God!”
He chuckled then, like an evil demon, and said, “I think you do.”
Then he was flicking his tongue against her so rapidly she couldn’t think, couldn’t squirm away. Not that she wanted to. He was relentless, untiring and thorough, focused entirely on that one point. Just when she thought she couldn’t take any more—when her breath was coming in short quick pants—he opened his mouth around her bud and sucked strongly.
Beatrice pressed the back of her head into the pillow, her lips opening on a soundless scream. He was pulling, tugging on that small bit of flesh, his broad hands pressed against her thighs, holding her firmly open, and she couldn’t withstand the sensation. Stars imploded within her, sending flashes of delight throughout her entire body. She jerked and jerked again, and then her limbs sank, weighted with pleasurable relaxation.
She opened her eyes to see him crawling up her. First his chest and then his hips brushed against newly sensitized flesh, and then he settled his weight on her, flattening her breasts. He nudged her legs apart effortlessly.
“Reynaud,” she breathed.
He looked into her eyes as he slid up a little, the broad head of his penis just kissing her entrance. He flexed his hips and began to breach her. Her eyes narrowed as she felt a pinch. It’d been only a day since she’d lost her virginity.
“Beatrice,” he breathed.
“It hurts,” she said, her voice small.
He nodded. “Keep your eyes on me.”
She widened them, looking into his eyes. He had a tiny indent between his heavy eyebrows.
He shoved a little.
She felt the stretching of her inner muscles. He pressed steadily, widening her, burrowing into her flesh. Then he thrust suddenly and with definite force, and he was seated fully. She felt the pressure of his pubis against hers. His mouth thinned as if he controlled himself by only a tiny thread.
“Now,” he said. “Now, I make love to you.”
He bent and kissed her with his open mouth, his tongue conquering her lips as his penis conquered the quivering flesh between her legs. He withdrew and slid back into her, more easily this time, hitching himself up her body a little. He caught her beneath the knees and widened her legs, settling in, making himself comfortable in her body.
She moaned and moved beneath him. For, unlike the previous night, what he was doing to her now began to feel good. More than good.
She slid her hands to the back of his head, rubbing the bristling hair there. She felt full, heavy, as if waiting for something. He still kissed her, and she nipped at his lip, provoking a growl from him.
He quickened his thrusts.
She grasped his shoulders, slippery from sweat, and hung on, urging him with her mouth and hands. More. More. More.
Until she crested, suddenly and without warning, a blissful, glorious explosion of pleasure. She would’ve shouted had her mouth not been full of his tongue. He stiffened and lifted himself up, and she saw that he had reached his point as well. His nostrils were flared, his teeth gritted and bared. He thrust home one last time, shuddering, and then he let his head hang, his arms straight and holding up his upper body.
He inhaled deeply.
She kneaded the muscles of his back, wanting still to feel this connection.
He raised his head and she saw his face. Stark. Uncompromising. And without a trace of pity.
“You are mine,” he said.
Chapter Twelve
Longsword and the princess entered the castle’s gates together, but the minute their feet touched the ground, a thorny vine leaped up, faster than a bolt of lightning. Higher and thicker it grew until a giant, thorny hedge so entirely surrounded the castle’s keep that not a stone could be seen. Longsword began to hack at the hedge, but as soon as he cut a branch, another one grew in its place.
“It is impossible!” the princess cried.
But Longsword took a deep breath and ran at the hedge, swinging his sword faster than the eye could see. He slashed so quickly that the blade of his sword glowed white-hot, and as it cut, it seared as well so that the branches could not grow again. In a minute more, Longsword had cut a path through the magical hedge….
—from Longsword
“Did you know that Lottie Graham has left her husband?” Adriana asked as she forked up a piece of fish at dinner. She looked at it critically and said, “Do you think he’s taken a mistress? Or two? Because most men do take a mistress at one time or another, and I think the practical wife just doesn’t notice, don’t you?”
Hasselthorpe took a drink of wine, boggling a bit at the thought of Adriana lumping herself together with “practical” wives. They sat in their town-house dining room tonight, a rather overdecorated room featuring gold putti and pink marble. He didn’t bother answering the question, because she rarely needed anyone else’s help in her conversations. This was handy, especially on the rare occasions when they dined just the two of them, for he had no need to follow the conversation.
And indeed she continued after swallowing. “I can’t think of another reason for her to leave Mr. Graham. He is so handsome, and every time I see him, he compliments me on my appearance, and I do like a gentleman who can turn a pretty phrase.”
She poked her fish and frowned. “I don’t see why fish should have so many bones, do you?”
Hasselthorpe, who’d been contemplating Blanchard’s lessening odds of keeping his title, looked up rather irritably. “What are you talking about, Adriana?”
“Fish,” his wife said promptly. “And their bones. They have so many, and I really don’t see why. They live in the water.”
“All creatures have bones.” Hasselthorpe sighed.
“Not worms,” his wife said. “Nor jellyfish nor snails, although they do have shells, which I su
ppose are very like bones, on their outsides.”
He winced. Why must she always blather about nonsense?
“But I’m not sure a shell is quite the same as a bone on the inside.” She scowled quite adorably down at her haddock. “And, in any case, I still don’t understand why they should have so many and they be always waiting to catch in one’s throat.”
“Quite.” Hasselthorpe gave up trying to follow his wife’s mind and instead drank some more wine. Sometimes it helped get him through these meals. How had Hope survived that second assassination attempt? Dammit, why the man should survive two attempts in as many weeks and not a scratch on him was—
“Do you suppose he doesn’t wash?”
Hasselthorpe paused, his wineglass halfway to his lips. “The fish?”
“No, silly!” Adriana trilled gaily. “Mr. Graham. Some gentlemen seem to think washing their persons is merely a monthly or even yearly chore. Do you suppose Mr. Graham is one of them?”
Hasselthorpe blinked. “I—”
“Because I can’t think why else Lottie would leave him.” Adriana frowned. “He’s quite handsome and rather charming, and I haven’t heard any tales of him keeping one mistress, let alone two, so I think it must be the washing, or rather not washing, don’t you?”
He sighed. “Adriana, my dear, as usual, you’ve quite lost me.”
“Have I?” She smiled at him. “But I didn’t mean to. And you considered one of the leading lights of the Tories, too!”
Her ripple of laughter was enough to send a less-strong man into raving fits. As it was, Hasselthorpe merely smiled tightly at his spouse. “Very amusing, my dear.”
“Yes, aren’t I?” she said complacently, and went back to poking at her fish. “I think it must be the reason you love me.”
Hasselthorpe sighed. Because despite her lack of wits, her irritating conversation, and her execrable decorating style, Adriana was quite right about this one matter.
He did love her.
BEATRICE SHOULD’VE BEEN suspicious when Reynaud sat down to dine with her and her uncle that night. But alas, she was so caught up in keeping her expression bland that she didn’t even think to wonder what he was doing there. So when he made his request over the fish, she nearly choked on her wine.
“What did you say?” Beatrice gasped when she’d caught her breath.
“I wasn’t addressing you,” the odious backstabber said.
“Well, you’ll certainly have to consult with me about the matter eventually,” she said tartly.
A muscle in Reynaud’s jaw flexed. “I doubt—”
“No!” roared Uncle Reggie.
Beatrice’s head swung toward her uncle in alarm. His face had gone the color of claret. “Please don’t excite yourself—”
“It’s not enough that you must have my title, but now you want to take my niece as well,” Uncle Reggie bellowed. He thumped a fist on the table, making the silverware jump.
“I haven’t accepted Lord Hope’s proposal,” Beatrice said soothingly.
“But you will,” Reynaud said, crushing what little peace she might’ve gained.
“Don’t you threaten my niece!” Uncle Reggie shouted.
Reynaud’s lips thinned. “I don’t threaten; I merely state a fact.”
And they were off again. Really, she might not be in the room for all the attention they paid her. She was like an old bone for two dogs to fight over. Beatrice sighed and sipped her wine again, taking a surreptitious glance at Reynaud. He’d left her the night before, soon after their lovemaking, and she hadn’t seen him all day. He wore the white wig tonight and a dark wine-red coat that made his tanned skin and dark brows and eyes exotically elegant. The iron cross earring swung against his jaw as he tilted his head mockingly at her uncle. It made him look a bit like a pirate, she decided.
He caught her eye and winked. The rest of his face was impassive, and it was done so quickly that she almost thought she imagined it. Did he really want to marry her? The notion sent an odd shaft of warmth to her center.
Until Uncle Reggie said, “You only want to marry my niece to bolster your claim that you aren’t mad. It’s another scheme to steal my house and title!”
Well, that was certainly dampening. Beatrice stared fixedly at her wineglass. She would not weep before these two buffoons.
Reynaud’s upper lip curved in a sneer as he leaned toward her uncle. “It’s my house. How many times must I repeat it? The title, the house, the monies, and, yes, now Beatrice. They’re all mine. You hold them by the tips of your fingers, and they’re all sliding away from you, old man. That’s why you’re so angry.”
Beatrice cleared her throat. “I don’t know if either of you are aware, but I am sitting right here.”
Reynaud lifted an eyebrow at her, his black eyes glinting. “And would you care to join this conversation? Perhaps list one or two reasons a match between us is inevitable?”
How dare he? The threat was implicit that he’d inform Uncle Reggie that he’d bedded her if she balked at this proposal.
Beatrice lifted her chin, addressing her remarks to Uncle Reggie, although she still held Reynaud’s gaze. “I’m sure Lord Hope would be amenable to some sort of compensation for your stewardship of the earldom, Uncle.”
A corner of Reynaud’s mouth quirked as he mouthed, “Touché.”
But Uncle Reggie roared, “Be damned afore I accept help from this popinjay!”
Beatrice sighed. Gentlemen could be so extraordinarily pigheaded sometimes. “It wouldn’t be help, Uncle; it would be compensation for years of service to the title. Really, it’s only fitting.”
Reynaud leaned back in his chair, watching her speculatively. “Whatever makes you think I’d give anything to this usurper of my title?”
“Well, fitting or not, I’ll not accept it.” Uncle Reggie pushed back his chair with a thump. “I’ll leave you, Niece, to the company of this man you’ve chosen over me.”
And with that, he left the room.
Beatrice looked down at her plate, trying to conceal the hurt she’d felt at her uncle’s words.
“He’s an old fool,” Reynaud said softly.
“He’s my uncle,” Beatrice replied without looking up.
“And because of that, I should reward him for stealing my title?”
“No.” She finally inhaled and met his eyes. “You should gift him with a small remuneration, because it would be the right and honorable thing to do.”
“And if I don’t give a damn about honor?” he asked softly.
She watched him, lounging in his seat, his hand on the stem of his wineglass, idly twirling it. But she knew he was far from idle. He’d maneuvered her here to this spot, this confrontation as deftly as a chess master cornering his opponent’s queen. And why not? a small part of her whispered. If she was Reynaud’s wife, she would be in a much better position to urge him to vote for Mr. Wheaton’s bill.
And she could press for concessions before surrender.
Beatrice leaned back in her chair, mimicking his pose. “Then you might do it for me.”
“Might I?” he said. He contemplated her, as if weighing her worth against that of his pride.
“Yes,” she said firmly, “you might. You might also offer Uncle Reggie permanent residence here in this house should you regain your title.”
“And what would be the benefit to me of this magnanimous gesture?”
“You know full well what the benefit would be,” she said, tired suddenly of this game. “Don’t play with me.”
He took a sip of his wine and set down the glass with finality. “Come here.”
She rose and circled the table to stand before him. Her heart was beating fast and hard, but she tried to regulate her breathing. Tried not to show how desperately he affected her.
He pushed his chair from the table and spread his legs. “Closer.”
She stepped between his legs, almost touching him, the blood rushing in her ears.
He looked
up at her, a conquering warrior. “Kiss me.”
She inhaled and then bent, placing one hand on his shoulder. Her lips brushed his, and she could not control their trembling. She straightened and looked at him.
“More,” he said.
She shook her head. “Not here. The servants will return soon to clear the meal.”
“Then where?” His eyelids drooped lazily. “And when?”
In answer, she held out her hand, for she didn’t trust her voice. Her action went against everything she’d ever been taught about how a lady should behave. She’d been told this was wrong. That it would only lead to sorrow and disgrace. But her heart seemed to be telling her otherwise, and she had no one else to turn to anymore. Jeremy was dead. Uncle Reggie had made clear his displeasure with her, and Lottie was too wrapped up in her own life right now.
Which left only herself to depend upon.
He placed his hand in hers, and she gave a gentle tug to make him stand up. She led him from the room without saying anything. The hall was deserted; Uncle Reggie didn’t like servants hanging about during the evening meal. She went quickly up the stairs, aware of Lord Hope’s footsteps, steady and almost ominous behind her, but she didn’t look back. She took him to her own room and then paused beside the door.
“Wait here,” she said, and slipped inside. Quick was in her room, as she was every night, waiting to help her ready for bed.
“That’ll be all,” she said to the maid. “And, Quick?”
The maid turned toward her. “Miss?”
“Be sure you don’t see anything in the hall.”
Quick’s eyes widened but she was far too good a servant to comment. She merely curtsied and left the room.
Beatrice took a deep breath and went to the door, opening it. He was outside, leaning against the wall, waiting patiently.
“Come in,” she said, and he straightened.
SHE STOOD TALL and prim and invited him into her room. He’d been there twice before, of course, but not at her invitation.