Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle

  His lips, so fascinating, were very close. As Lucinda watched, they twisted.

  “Perhaps not. But when it comes to the likes of Craven and the others—or me—you’re hardly experienced, my dear.”

  Her expression intransigent, Lucinda met his gaze. “I’m more than capable of holding my own.”

  His eyes flared. “Are you?”

  Harry felt barely civilised. She kept prodding the demon within him; he felt barely sane. “Shall we put that to the test?”

  He framed her face with his hands and deliberately moved one inch nearer, pressing her against the wall. He felt her draw in a quick breath; a quiver shivered through her. “Shall I show you what we are interested in, Lucinda?” He tilted her face to his. “Shall I show you what’s on our—” his lips twisted in self-mockery “—my mind every time I look at you? Waltz with you?”

  Lucinda didn’t answer. Eyes wide, she stared into his, her breathing shallow and rapid, her pulse skittering wildly. His brows rose mockingly, inviting her comment; his eyes burned. Then his gaze dropped from hers; Lucinda watched as he focused on her lips. She couldn’t suppress the impulse to run the tip of her tongue over the smooth curves.

  She felt the shudder that rippled through him, heard the groan he tried to suppress.

  Then his head swooped and his lips found hers.

  It was the caress she had longed for, planned for, plotted to attain—yet it was like nothing she had dreamed. His lips were hard, forceful, commanding. They captured hers, then tortured them with subtle pleasures, ravishing her senses until she submitted. The kiss caught her up, conquered and willing, and skilfully swept her free of reality, into a place where only his will prevailed. He demanded—she surrendered. Completely.

  When he asked, she gave, when he wanted more, she unhesitatingly yielded. She sensed his need—and wanted, deeply desired, his satisfaction. She kissed him back, thrilled to feel the surge of unleashed passion that answered her. The kiss deepened, then deepened again, until she could sense nothing beyond it and the wild longing that swelled within her.

  What deep-seated alarm it was that hauled Harry to his senses he did not know. Perhaps the urgent clamouring of rampant desires and the consequent need to arrange their fulfilment? Whatever it was, he suddenly realised the danger. It took every last ounce of his strength to draw back.

  When he lifted his head, he was shaking.

  Searching for sanity, he stared at her face—her lids slowly rose, revealing eyes so blue, so soft, so glowing with a siren’s allure that he couldn’t breathe. Her lips, kiss-bruised, gleaming red, ripe and, as he could now testify, so very sweet, drew his gaze. He felt himself falling under her spell again, leaning closer, his lips hungry for hers.

  He dragged in a painful breath—and lifted his gaze to her eyes.

  Only to see, in the soft blue depths, an awakening intelligence, superseded by a very feminine consideration.

  The sight shook him to the core.

  Her gaze dropped to his lips.

  Harry shuddered; fleetingly, he closed his eyes. “Don’t.”

  It was the plea of a defeated man.

  Lucinda heard and understood. But if she didn’t press her advantage now, she would lose it. Em had said he’d be thrilled—but he was so stubborn, if she didn’t play that card now, he might not give her another chance.

  She lifted her gaze to his. Slowly, she drew her hands from between them and pushed them up over his shoulders. She saw the consternation that filled his eyes; his muscles were locked tight, paralysed. He was unable to deny her.

  Harry knew it; restraining his all-but-overpowering desire took all his strength. He couldn’t move, could only watch his fate draw near as her arms tightened about his neck and she stretched upwards against him.

  When her lips were an inch from his, she raised her eyes and met his tortured gaze. Then her lids fell and she pressed her lips to his.

  His resistance lasted all of two heartbeats, as long as it took for desire, shackled, suppressed for so long it had grown to ungovernable proportions, to sear through him, cindering every last one of his good intentions, his rational reasons, his logical excuses.

  With a groan that was ripped from deep within him, he drew her into his arms and engulfed her in his embrace.

  With all restraint shattered, he kissed her deeply, caressed her, let his desire ignite and set fire to them both. She kissed him back, her hands clinging, her body wantonly enticing.

  Desire rose between them, wild and strong; Lucinda abandoned herself to it, to the deep surge of their passions, fervently hoping to thus disguise any false move, any too-tentative response. If he sensed her innocence, all would come to nought—of that she was sure.

  His caresses were magic, the response they drew so shattering she would be shocked—if she let herself think. Luckily, coherent thought was beyond her, blocked out by heated clouds of desire. Her senses whirled. His hands on her breasts provoked an urgent, building compulsion unlike any she’d ever experienced.

  When one hand dropped low and he drew her hips hard against him, moulding her to him, flagrantly demonstrating his desire, Lucinda moaned softly and pressed closer.

  Burgeoning passion left them frantic, hungry for each other, so desperate Harry’s head was spinning as he backed her to the daybed. He refocused his will on salvaging some modicum of his customary expertise, bringing it to bear as he divested her of her gown and petticoats, brushing her fluttering hands aside, content enough that she was too befuddled to sensibly assist. Desire urged them on, riding them both; clad only in her chemise, Lucinda flung his cravat to the floor, then fell on the buttons of his shirt with a singlemindedness as complete as his. She seemed fascinated by his chest; he had to pick her up and put her on the daybed so he could sit and tug off his boots.

  Lucinda was fascinated—by him, by the sense of rightness that gripped her, by the warm desire flowing in her veins. She felt free, unrestrained by any tenets of modesty or decorum, sure that this was how it should be. He stripped and turned towards her; she wrapped her arms about him, revelling in the feel of his warm skin, burning to her touch. Their lips met; urgency welled, heating her through and through. He drew off her chemise; as their bodies met, she shivered and closed her eyes. They kissed deeply, then Harry pressed her back against the soft cushions. Caught up in the spring tide of their loving, Lucinda lay back and drew him to her.

  He lay beside her and loved her but their spiralling need soon spelled an end to such play. Eyes closed, Lucinda knew nothing beyond a deep and aching emptiness, the overwhelming need he had brought to life and only he could assuage. Relief and expectation flooded her when he shifted and his weight pinned her to the bed. She tried to draw breath, to steel herself; his hand slipped beneath her hips and steadied her—with one smooth flexion of his powerful body he joined them.

  Her soft gasp echoed in the room. Neither of them moved, both stunned to stillness.

  Slowly, his heart thudding in his ears, Harry raised his head and looked down at her face. Her eyes were shut, a frown tangling her brows, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Even as he watched, she relaxed a little beneath him, her features easing.

  He waited for his emotions to catch up with the facts. He expected to feel angry, tricked, deceived.

  Instead, a shattering feeling of possessiveness, untouched by lust, driven by some far more powerful emotion, welled within him, thrusting out all regrets. The sensation grew, joyously swelling, strong and sure.

  Harry didn’t question it—or how it made him feel.

  Lowering his head, he brushed her lips with his. “Lucinda?”

  She snatched in a breath then her lips clung to his. Her fingers fluttered against his jaw.

  Harry brought up a hand to gently smooth away clinging tendrils of her hair from her face.

  Then, with infinite tenderness, he taught her how to love.

  SOME CONSIDERABLE TIME LATER, when Lucinda again made contact with reality, she discovered herself
wrapped in Harry’s arms, her back against his chest as he half-sat, propped against the raised head of the daybed. She sighed long and lingeringly, the glory dimming yet still glowing within her.

  Harry bent over her; she felt his lips at her temple.

  “Tell me of your marriage.”

  Lucinda’s brows half-rose. With one fingertip, she drew whorls in the hair on his forearm. “To understand, you need to realise that I was orphaned at fourteen. Both my parents had been disowned by their families.” Using the minimum of words, she explained her past history, one hand moving slowly back and forth along Harry’s arm, snug about her, all the while. “So, you see, my marriage was never consummated. Charles and I were close, but he didn’t love me in that way.”

  Harry kept his doubts to himself, rendering silent thanks to Charles Babbacombe for keeping her safe, for loving her enough to leave her untouched. His lips in her hair, the subtle scent of her filling him, Harry made a silent vow to her late husband’s shade that, as the recipient of his legacy, he would keep her safe for evermore.

  “You’ll have to marry me.” He spoke the words as they occurred to him, thinking aloud.

  Lucinda blinked. The joy that had filled her faded. After a quiet moment, she asked, “Have to marry you?”

  She felt Harry straighten as he looked down at her.

  “You were a virgin. I’m a gentleman. The prescribed outcome of our recent activity is a wedding.”

  His words were definite, his accents clipped. Lucinda closed her eyes; she didn’t want to believe her ears. The last vestige of lingering afterglow evaporated, the promise of the long, inexpressibly tender moments they had shared vanished.

  Lucinda stifled a sigh; her lips firmed into a determined line. Opening her eyes, she turned in Harry’s arms and looked him straight in the eye. “You want to marry me because I was a virgin—is that correct?”

  Harry frowned. “It’s what’s expected.”

  “But is it what you want?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I want,” Harry growled, his eyes narrowing. “The matter, thank heaven, is simple enough. Society has rules—we’ll follow them—to the general satisfaction of all concerned.”

  For a long moment, Lucinda studied him, her thoughts chaotic. It was an offer—of sorts—from the man she wanted.

  But it wasn’t good enough. She didn’t just want him to marry her.

  “No.”

  Stunned, Harry watched as she scrambled out of his arms and off the daybed. She found her chemise and pulled it on.

  He sat up. “What do you mean—‘No’?”

  “No—I will not marry you.” Lucinda struggled into her petticoats.

  Harry stared at her. “Why not, for heaven’s sake?” She started towards her gown and nearly tripped over his breeches. He heard a stifled curse as she bent to untangle her feet. Then she flung the breeches at him and continued towards her gown.

  With a muttered curse of his own, Harry grabbed the breeches and hauled them on, then pulled on his boots. He stood and stalked over to where Lucinda was pushing her arms through the sleeves of her gown.

  Hands on hips, he towered over her. “Damn it—I seduced you! You have to marry me.”

  Eyes ablaze, Lucinda shot him a furious glance. “I seduced you, if you recall. And I most certainly do not ‘have to marry you’!”

  “What about your reputation?”

  “What of it?” Lucinda tugged her gown up over her shoulders. Turning to face him, she jabbed a finger in his chest. “No one would ever believe that Mrs Lucinda Babbacombe, widow, had been a virgin until you came along. You’ve got no lever to use against me.”

  Looking up, she met his eyes.

  And abruptly changed tack. “Besides,” she said, looking down to do up the buttons of her bodice, “I’m sure it’s not accepted practice for rakes to offer marriage to every woman they seduce.”

  Harry ground his teeth. “Lucinda…”

  “And I have not made you free of my name!” Lucinda glared at him. She wouldn’t let him use it—he’d whispered it, coupled with every conceivable endearment, as he’d made love to her.

  Love—the emotion she knew he felt for her but was determined to deny.

  It wasn’t good enough—it would never be good enough.

  She whirled on her heel and marched to the door.

  Harry swore. Buttoning his shirt, he started after her. “This is crazy! I’ve offered for you, you demented woman! It’s what you’ve been after ever since I hauled you out of that damned carriage!”

  Lucinda had reached the door. She swung around. “If you’re so adept at reading my mind, then you’ll understand perfectly why I’m throwing you out!”

  She gripped the doorknob, turned it and yanked. Nothing happened. She stared at the door. “Where’s the key?”

  Thoroughly distracted, Harry automatically reached into his breeches pocket. “Here.”

  Lucinda blinked, then grabbed the key and rattled it into the keyhole.

  Harry watched her in disbelief. “Damn it—I’ve given you a proposal—what more do you want?”

  Her hand on the knob, Lucinda drew herself up and turned to face him. “I don’t want to be offered for because of some social technicality. I don’t want to be rescued, or…or protected or married out of pity! What I want—” Abruptly, she halted and dragged in a deep breath. Then she lifted her eyes to his and deliberately stated, “What I want is to be married for love.”

  Harry stiffened. His face hardened. “Love is not considered an important element for marriage within our class.”

  Lucinda pressed her lips together, then succinctly stated, “Balderdash.” She flung open the door.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Harry ran his fingers through his hair.

  “I know very well what I’m talking about,” Lucinda averred. None better—she loved him with all her heart and soul. Glancing about, she spied his coat and cravat by the daybed. She flew across the room and pounced on them.

  Harry turned to face her, blocking the doorway as she bustled back.

  “There.” Lucinda crammed the expensive coat and cravat into his arms. “Now get out!”

  Harry drew in a steadying breath. “Lucinda—”

  “Out!”

  Without warning, Lucinda pushed hard in the middle of his chest. Harry staggered back, over the threshold.

  Lucinda grabbed the door. “Goodbye, Mr Lester! Rest assured I’ll bear your instructions as to the interests of your set in mind in the coming weeks!”

  With that, she slammed the door and locked it.

  The fury that had sustained her abruptly drained. Slumping back against the door, she covered her face with her hands.

  Harry glared at the white-painted panels. He considered forcing his way back in—then he heard a stifled sob. His heart wrenched—racked by frustration, he stuffed it back behind his inner door and slammed that shut as well. His lips set in a grim line, he turned on his heel and marched down the corridor. He caught sight of himself in a mirror. Abruptly, he halted and shrugged on his coat, then draped the creased cravat about his throat.

  It took him three tries before he could achieve anything remotely resembling decency. With a snort, he turned and headed for the stairs.

  He had made an offer. She had refused.

  The damned woman could go to hell by herself.

  He was finished with being her protector.

  He was finished with her.

  DISCOVERED, two hours later, with dark shadows under swollen red eyes, Lucinda could hardly deny Em her confidence.

  Her hostess was stunned. “I can’t understand it. What the devil’s wrong with him?”

  Lucinda sniffed and dabbed her eyes with a lace-edged square. “I don’t know.” She felt like wailing. Her lips set in a mulish line. “But I won’t have it.”

  “Quite right, too!” Em snorted. “Don’t worry—he’ll come about. Probably just took him by surprise.”

  Lucinda
considered, then wearily shrugged.

  “Seems to me that there must be something we don’t know,” Em mused. “Known him all his life—he’s always the predictable one—always good reasons and logical arguments behind his actions—he’s not an impulsive man.” She grinned, her gaze distant. “Quite the opposite—Jack’s impulsive. Harry’s cautious.” A frown slowly settled over her face. “Has been for a long time, now I think of it.”

  Lucinda waited, hoping for some reassuring insight, but her hostess remained sunk in thought.

  Then Em snorted and shook herself, her stiff bombazine rustling. “Whatever it is, he’ll just have to come to terms with it and offer for you properly.”

  Lucinda swallowed and nodded. “Properly”—by which she meant he would have to tell her he loved her. After today, and all they had shared, she would settle for nothing less.

  THAT EVENING, Em took charge and insisted Lucinda remain at home, there to have an early night and recover her composure and her looks.

  “The last thing you want to do is show him or the ton a face like that.”

  Having thus overcome Lucinda’s half-hearted resistance, Em left the redoubtable Agatha ministering with cold cucumber compresses and, with the effervescent Heather under her wing, strode forth to do battle at Lady Caldecott’s ball.

  She spied Harry in the throng, but was not the least surprised when her errant nephew showed no disposition to come within firing range. But it was not him she had come to see.

  “Indisposed?” Lord Ruthven’s cool grey eyes reflected honest concern. “I do hope it’s nothing serious?”

  Well—it is and it isn’t.” Em lifted a brow at him. “You’re one who’s far more awake than you appear, so I dare say you’ve noticed that she’s been endeavouring to bring a certain recalcitrant to heel. Never an easy task, of course. A difficult road to travel—prone to find potholes in one’s path. She’s a bit moped at present.” Em paused to glance again at his lordship. “Dare say, when she reappears tomorrow, she could do with a little encouragement, don’t y’know?”