A Season of Ruin (2 page)

Alicia's hands tightened on his lapels. “Please—”

Ah, so eager. He did enjoy it when they begged. “No worries, pet. I'll take care of you.”

He lowered his head and crushed his lips against hers. He could have tried for at least a modicum of finesse, but this was by no means Alicia's first time alone in a dark, deserted library with an amorous gentleman. She knew what was coming.

But instead of devouring him as he'd expected, a strangled whimper escaped her and she jerked back, away from him. There was no place for her to go, of course, as she was
trapped between the door and his body, but she squirmed to break contact with his mouth.

Alicia, a shy virgin? That was doing it a bit brown, but if she wanted to play games, he'd act the part of the lustful rake to her chaste, innocent young lady. He placed his palms on either side of her face to hold her still and ran his tongue across the dry, closed seam of her lips.

She didn't open them. Robyn swept his tongue insistently against her mouth, but the delectable lips remained closed. What was Alicia playing at? She'd been keen enough to get him in here, and he'd been keen to come in part because he'd expected to get his tongue inside her mouth.

He swept it across her lips again. No luck, but all the same, Robyn felt a flutter of desire tickle low in his belly. The moment she denied him the pleasures of her mouth, he found he could think of nothing but how to get his tongue between her lips to surge into her slick heat.

It was something new anyway.

He didn't often have to make an effort to get inside a woman, her mouth or any other part of her. Women made no secret of their attraction to him, and Robyn felt it was impolite to refuse their advances. He took his pleasure where it was offered. Widows, actresses, opera singers, a mistress here and there—they were all delightful diversions in much the same way a visit to Tattersall's or a jaunt down Rotten Row diverted.

Predictable. Simple. Fleeting.

But challenging? No. Women weren't challenging, and hadn't been since he'd been a randy fifteen-year-old lad agonizing over a saucy, buxom maid at his family's seat in Kent. She'd given him a merry chase until at last she'd led him to a remote part of the rose garden. He'd pinned her against a stone wall and taken her right there, his breeches around his ankles, the sun on his back, his head swimming with the scent of roses. He couldn't recall her name now,
but to this day the scent of roses and the texture of rough stone still made him hard.

The maid had been the first in a succession of ladies who'd fallen into his arms like pins hitting the turf on a bowling green. Alicia, however, showed not the slightest inclination to hit the turf. She remained stubbornly, temptingly upright.

Christ, he was jaded. Jaded and debauched, because the idea of overcoming her token resistance aroused him. He would
make
her open for him. He would coax her, render her so dizzy with passion she would have no choice but welcome him into her mouth. The flutter of desire in his belly unfurled and grew until it became a conflagration.

Robyn slid his tongue away from the seam of her lips. He'd have it inside her before they left this room, but he could take his time getting there. His teased his mouth across hers, nibbling at one corner, then the other. He slipped his tongue deftly across the perfect curve of her lower lip to tease her, then he discovered the faint bow of her upper lip. He darted the tip of his tongue into the tiny gap again and again, until he thought he'd go mad if she didn't open her lips.

She made some small sound then, some faint whisper of . . . surrender? He burned with anticipation, but her lips remained closed. Her hands still clutched at his coat, but with each soft touch of his mouth, he felt the tension ease from her, one vertebra at a time, until her back relaxed against the door.

Robyn slid his hands between the door and her body to stroke the arch of her lower back, right where it swelled into what promised to be a luscious backside. After a few moments her fists opened and she laid her hands flat on his chest.

Yes.
That was it. He smiled against her mouth.

He would not have believed a practiced siren like Alicia could work him into such a frenzy. He'd had dozens of
women just like her before. She was no innocent, but damned if she didn't have him imagining she was. He was wild to get into her mouth and find out if she tasted as perfect as she felt. Would she be sweet, like honey, or rich, like new cream?

He'd thought only to have a frolic with her, but perhaps a more permanent arrangement was in order? She was married, of course, but that made no difference to him. He'd had married lovers before.

For God's sake
. He hadn't even kissed her properly yet.

He laid his hand against her neck and pressed light, feathery kisses against her cheeks, then another on the tip of her nose. They were gentle, playful kisses—not at all the kind of kisses he'd normally share with a woman like Alicia. Or
any
woman, come to that, since the women he favored were all different versions of her.

At some point he'd begun to pretend it wasn't Alicia at all. Not very gallant of him, but it kept the illusion intact. The innocence of her lips under his, feigned though it was, touched him somehow. He was almost reluctant to end the moment at all.

Almost.

Then, without warning, as if she sensed a change in him, she wrapped her arms around his neck. Robyn froze, afraid she'd retreat again, but then she gave a low, breathy sigh and melted into him. The blood pounded through his body. He wanted to crush her against him and take her mouth roughly then, but he held himself back and instead let just the tip of his tongue graze her lush bottom lip.

Once.

Her lips opened.

Robyn had the strangest urge to sink to his knees, but if he did he'd take her down to the floor with him, and they no longer had time for
that
. But
this
—he'd been wild to get inside her mouth since she'd opened the door and he'd seen her white-gloved hand.

White gloves? Robyn stilled as he conjured an image of Alicia as she'd looked from across the drawing room. Petite but curvy, dark hair swept on top of her head, catlike gray eyes aglow with wanton invitation. A dark blue gown and long black gloves fit tightly to her slender arms. Hadn't she had a diamond bauble of some sort on her wrist?

Well, maybe she'd worn the diamond bracelet on the other wrist? The one that hadn't opened the door? Yes, that must be it. And perhaps she'd simply changed into white gloves on her way to meet him in the study? Yes. Yes, of course, she'd want to change her gloves on her way to an illicit assignation.

He was still trying to convince himself this was a perfectly reasonable explanation when a hesitant tongue brushed against his. With that one shy stroke, every thought fled Robyn's head but one.

She tastes like wild strawberries.

“Delicious,” he murmured, his voice as rough as a cat's tongue, and so husky he hardly recognized it. He stroked the soft skin of her jaw as his tongue twined with hers, then slipped two fingers under her chin to tilt her mouth up to his to deepen the kiss.

A low, pained groan broke from his chest when at last he was able to take her mouth fully. His tongue touched her everywhere, lost in her sweet, tart taste. She met each glide and stroke and thrust, and he wanted to roar with triumph.

Maybe they did have time for
that
, after all.

He swept her into his arms and backed away from the door. He'd intended to lay her across Lord Barrow's desk, but he only made it as far as the settee. He dropped down onto it, his lips still joined with hers, and dragged her on top of him, across his lap, his throat dry, pulse jumping in his neck, ready to devour her.

Jesus.
It's just a kiss.
A kiss, like any other kiss he'd shared with countless other women.

But it wasn't the same, and somewhere in his
passion-fogged brain Robyn recognized it. This kiss was different. He hadn't lost control with a woman since he'd turned sixteen, but now his body shook with the need to get inside her.

He cupped her cheek to urge her mouth closer to his and dragged his palm down the front of her neck and over the smooth, warm skin left bare by her low-cut gown. He traced his fingertips to the very edge of the neckline, where the smooth silk met the soft skin of the tops of her breasts.

Oh, God
. Such a light touch, but he could feel the faintest throb of her heart under his fingers.

Her pert little backside pressed against his groin, his tongue twined with hers, and he was about to fill his hand with her soft breast. Had this not been the case, Robyn might have noticed it when she stilled on his lap. He might have felt just the merest whisper of a retreat.

As it was, he didn't notice a thing until she withdrew her tongue from his mouth, and then every part of his body howled with the loss. He couldn't fail to notice when she went stiff and unyielding on top of him and began to struggle in earnest to get away. It cooled his ardor just enough to enable him to think clearly.

Damn it
. Something was wrong.

The white gloves. He was certain Alicia had been wearing black gloves and a high-necked gown. He'd noted the style because it was an unusual choice for Alicia, whose breasts were forever spilling from her bodices. There was something else, as well. Just now, when he'd swept her into his arms, her head had rested under his chin. Alicia was petite; her head wouldn't have reached farther than his shoulder.

Well,
someone's
head had rested there, for he'd buried his face in her hair to draw in as much as he could of her intoxicating scent. He was damn sure he'd just run his fingertips over the bare skin of
someone's
neck and bosom, as well. Even the finest silk wasn't that soft and supple. Or that warm. And her scent—that grass in the sun, daisies in
a meadow scent. Alicia was charming in her way, but no woman of her experience could manufacture a scent like that, a scent of pure, distilled innocence.

He really
wasn't
kissing Alicia. The shyness, the hesitation, the reticence—it wasn't feigned. He hadn't the faintest idea whom he
was
kissing, but he was quite sure she was an innocent. A responsive, eager, passionate innocent, but an innocent nonetheless.

He'd better stop at once, as kissing and fondling an innocent had transformed more than one merry bachelor into a far less merry husband.

At once
. That meant
immediately
, or
right now
, as in
this very second
.

She pushed against his chest again, harder this time.

Bloody, bloody, bloody hell
.

His innocent temptress was determined to escape him. She writhed and flailed and tried to twist off his lap. She'd flee as soon as he released her, that much was certain. She'd flee and he'd never get a close look at her. He'd never know who she was and he wouldn't be able to find her again.

Unthinkable
. Find her he would, innocent or not.

Robyn tightened his arms around her. He had to know who she was.

Then
he'd let her go.

Robyn Sutherland was trying to put his tongue inside her mouth.

She knew something was amiss as soon as she felt the strong fingers wrap around her wrist. This wasn't the ladies' retiring room, and these fingers didn't belong to a lady. They belonged to Robyn Sutherland, and if the fingers were his, then it stood to reason the tongue sweeping across the seam of her lips was Robyn's, as well.

She'd mistaken the room. Robyn, who'd just thrown the bolt on the door behind her, had mistaken the lady. He was eager, impassioned, and quite obviously waiting for someone else.

Someone who
wanted
his tongue inside her mouth.

Goodness gracious. She'd never heard of such a thing. Was this how gentlemen kissed in London? Or was this just how Robyn kissed?

The wickedest gentleman in the wickedest city in England.

She thought the statement utter nonsense not ten minutes ago, but that was before she discovered what a determined tongue he had.

Well. She had far more to contribute to a discussion of his wickedness
now
. It didn't speak well of him that he was hiding in a dark room, lying in wait for some female of questionable virtue, right in the middle of Lord and Lady Barrow's musicale. Not well at all.

“What—” she began.

He chuckled. “What took you so long? I was just wondering the same thing myself.”

She knew that chuckle, that voice. This particular gentleman hadn't ever spoken to
her
in such a low, husky murmur, but she couldn't mistake that teasing drawl.

“I don't—” she tried again, but she wasn't sure quite what she'd say.
I don't think this is the ladies' retiring room? I don't have time to be accosted tonight? I don't think you should put your tongue there?

He brushed his mouth against her neck. “Of course you do.”

Lily took a deep breath and warned herself not to panic, even when he pressed against her and she realized she was trapped between his warm, eager body and the hard wooden door at her back. Being accosted by an amorous gentleman was not part of her plan this evening, but she must not fall into maidenly hysterics, especially over a simple case of mistaken identity. It was easily set to rights.

Hysterics would cause a scene, and Lily detested scenes. They were messy.

She turned her head to the side in an attempt to break contact with his mouth, but he followed the movement as if he were a horse and she'd hidden a lump of sugar under her tongue.

She wished he'd stop, for at the moment she had other things to worry about than avoiding his lips. She needed to work out if she should be
more
worried Robyn was the rake
in question, or
less
so. It did complicate matters. If he succeeded in getting his tongue in her mouth, she'd never be able to look him in the eye again.

So there was that.

She'd much prefer to escape this room before he realized who she was, but short of rendering him unconscious, she couldn't see how she'd manage it. She couldn't simply explain herself. It was a miracle he hadn't already recognized her voice, though admittedly the antics with his tongue must take a great deal of concentration.

Besides, one had to open one's mouth to offer an explanation, and under the circumstances, that seemed risky.

She needed a new plan, one with an escape route. If only she had a bit of paper, she might be able to work it out . . .

Lily's eyes widened as the hot tongue swept against her mouth again, but she kept her lips sealed. Robyn was a gentleman. She was safe with him as long as she remained unwilling, and a lady communicated her unwillingness by keeping her lips
closed
.

Robyn would never bestow his attentions on an unwilling recipient. Would he? He couldn't be as wicked as his sisters claimed he was. Charlotte in particular was so apt to dramatize, Lily had begun to suspect the wicked London Rake was as much a fiction as wicked London itself.

Now she wasn't so sure.

Robyn made one more foray against her mouth with his tongue, but she kept her lips as resolutely closed as a rosebud in the depths of winter. Surely he'd give up now and release her? Then she had only to find a way to escape before he saw her face, and it would be as if this little adventure had never happened.

It wasn't that she hadn't wondered how it would feel to kiss Robyn. She had, more than once. She'd imagined it, even—kissing him, wrapping her arms around his neck. It was impossible to know Robyn and
not
wonder. He was so handsome, so charming, and there was that smile. Lily was
after all a woman, and as susceptible as any to a charming smile.

Besides, it was safe enough to
imagine
kissing Robyn. Truly kissing him was less so, for any number of reasons. For one, until recently he'd been wildly enamored of her sister, Delia. Lily and Delia looked very much alike, and, well, no woman wanted to feel as if a gentleman would rather kiss her sister than kiss her.

Or worse, pretend he
was
kissing her sister
while
he kissed her.

That was the trouble with Robyn. One just never knew with him. He might still be besotted with Delia. Or not. Maybe he'd come in here for an illicit liaison, or maybe he simply hadn't been in the mood for music tonight.

Or maybe she was just a coward
.

So be it. Cowards didn't get into scrapes. Lily didn't like surprises, and Robyn was unpredictable.

For one, he was far more persistent than she'd imagined he'd be, for he hadn't released her when she refused to open her lips to him. No, he'd begun to nibble at her as if she were a pastry, first at one corner of her mouth, then the other. He didn't touch the seam of her lips now, but let the tip of his tongue brush lightly over her bottom lip, tasting her there before he moved up to trace her upper lip. There he stayed. He traced it again and again, as if he'd found something there that fascinated him.

Oh, my.
It was soft, coaxing. Lily's back went boneless and she melted against the door behind her. This felt . . . different; so much nicer than an insistent tongue trying to batter its way into her mouth.

He shifted and slid his hands around her so they rested on her lower back. His slow caress should have soothed her, but instead it made the room tilt and sway so she had to place her hands flat against his chest to steady herself. His satin waistcoat was smooth and slick under her fingertips, his heart pounding through the fine fabric.

She felt his lips move against hers, felt the corners of his mouth turn up.

He was smiling.

Some sound escaped her, a sound she'd meant as denial that emerged instead as a breathless sigh. A sigh of pleasure. Of encouragement.

Oh, dear.
There was a reason she'd vowed not to open her lips.

She didn't like surprises.

Robyn dropped little kisses against her cheeks, soft as a butterfly's wing, and then he did something that astonished her. He kissed the tip of her nose. The gesture was so sweet, so tender and unexpected, Lily's arms stole around his shoulders.

He went motionless when he felt her hands at the back of his neck, as if he waited for something else. Something more. His tongue, the tongue she'd tried so desperately to avoid, now felt necessary to her, as if she would stop breathing if she couldn't taste it.

Lily opened her lips.

Robyn surged inside as if he'd waited an eternity to be there, and this time his demanding, insistent tongue felt so sweet inside her mouth that her knees buckled beneath her. Without thinking, Lily matched his ardor. She twined her tongue with his and returned each of his teasing strokes with one of her own.

“Delicious,” he whispered hoarsely, and his voice was at once both Robyn's voice and not his voice at all. The lips against hers were his and not his, and dazed as Lily was, she knew, she knew even then this kiss would change everything. They couldn't go back to what they had been before. Not after a kiss like this.

She didn't want that, did she? Perhaps it wasn't too late to set it right again. If they stopped right now, maybe . . .

The floor disappeared from beneath her feet as Robyn swept her into his arms. He buried his face in her hair and
then he was sitting, and he'd pulled her onto his lap. She felt his thighs under her bottom and his breath coming hard and fast against her neck. His chest rose and fell under her hands.

He dragged a warm palm down the front of her neck, and before she could take another breath, she felt his finger against the neckline of her gown. Just one finger, a slow, teasing caress. He barely touched her, just drifted his fingertip over the narrow band of silk where her gown touched the skin at the top of her breast, but his touch felt like a trail of fire against her flesh.

Oh, dear God
. He'd thrust his tongue into her mouth and now he'd put a finger on her breast. She wasn't sure what came next, exactly. His entire hand? They'd already gone too far, and it felt too good to be in his arms—so good she couldn't trust herself to stop him from taking it farther.

She tried to draw away but he held her fast against him. Even when she began to struggle in earnest, he only tightened his arms around her. She had to get away from him. Now, before he touched her again and she no longer wanted to escape at all . . .

Crack!

Her palm landed on Robyn's cheek with enough force to make his head snap sideways. Lily stared down at her hand in disbelief. She didn't realize she had such a spectacular slap hidden in her palm. How thrilling to find it there! But as gratifying a slap as it was, it didn't deliver the desired result.

The confounded man still held on to her.

Why hadn't he released her? Perhaps young ladies slapped his face so often he'd grown accustomed to it? She'd intended to flee faster than she'd ever flown, before he could get a good look at her, but Robyn was wilier than she expected, and quicker. She twisted and flailed like a fish on a hook, but he held on like a champion angler.

He rose from the settee with her dangling from his arms as if she were a sack of flour. Her feet touched the ground,
but one of his arms clamped around her midsection before she could get any traction.

“Release me this
instant
—”

But she wasn't going anywhere until he decided she could.

“The devil I will. I think I've a right to see your face, given you've just slapped mine.”

He followed this declaration with a long string of curses and hauled her along with him toward the lamp in the opposite corner of the room.

Lily wanted to sink to the ground in mortification, but it was too late for a swoon. Robyn snatched the lamp off the table and raised it so the muted light shone fully on her face. She closed her eyes and waited, breath held.

His fingers tightened at her waist, but he didn't say a word. Lily opened one eye and peeked at him, but shadows hid half his face and she couldn't read his expression.

Perhaps
he'd
fallen into a swoon?

“Damnation,” he muttered after what felt like an eternity of silence. He released her, and his arms fell to his sides.

Lily didn't approve of profanity, but the word did seem appropriate, given the circumstances.

Damnation, indeed.