Craving the Rake's Touch (Rakes of the Caribbean) (2 page)

Chapter Three

Why the hell had he ever agreed to such a request? Benedict shoved off the desk and began to pace the room, his body filled with restless, frustrated energy. He
knew
why.

He’d never really gotten over Sarah, no matter how hard he’d tried, and oh, how he’d tried. The gossips weren’t far wrong when they said he’d bedded over two hundred women. The tally might not be two hundred, but it was close. Sometimes he went for a string of weeks with a new woman every night, but to no avail. None of them took. None of them could erase the memory of Sarah in his arms.

And yet, despite those efforts of near epic proportion, he’d not hesitated to set all that aside when he’d learned of the impending scandal. He could tell himself it had been because of his promise to Ren, but that would be something of a lie.

When he’d jumped on his horse this morning with a hastily packed valise, leaving a wake of broken appointments behind him, his one thought had not been “inform Sarah of impending doom.” It had been “save Sarah.” He’d had no plan. He only knew he had to reach her before the scandal did. He had to give her time to prepare and if that failed
he
was prepared to do what was necessary, what he’d wanted to do all those years ago before her father had thrown his suit in his face. Then he’d walked into the drawing room and seen all those men thinking they could claim
his
Sarah and her encouraging it in that apple-green tea gown. She was lovelier than his memories had allowed; her hair richer, her eyes bluer, her laugh more alluring, her gestures more graceful. Every man in the room wanted her and his anger had stirred.

Frankly, more had stirred than his anger. His desire to claim, to possess, had roused. The primal man in him had wanted to toss her over his shoulder and carry her out of there, had wanted to lay her down and strip that gown off her, had wanted to stake that claim in the most blatant ways a man can possess a woman, to show her what she was giving up, what she was risking by bartering herself in a hasty marriage for short-term gains.

He’d meant it when he’d said she was putting herself in a dangerous position. Marriage in Town was permanent. Marriage not only gave a man rights to a woman’s reputation, her family and her connections, but it also gave him rights to her bed and to her body. He would not allow Sarah to surrender those things carelessly, not when her father had been so judicious in protecting them.

Overhead, Benedict could hear the shuffle of feet as guests headed into the lull between tea and dinner. It was a time for privacy. Traditionally, women used the time to rest or to finish letters left uncompleted in the morning. The men made themselves scarce, perhaps retiring to the billiards room or to libraries. Sarah would be in her room.

An idea came to him. It was the perfect opportunity to get her alone. He knew she was worried, scared even, about the financial situation. But fear was a poor position to bargain from when it came to making decisions. If she would not listen to him, perhaps he could persuade her in another way to rethink the recklessness of her decision. Maybe he could remind her of all she stood to lose. His body stirred again. It seemed the primal man in him was going to get what he wanted after all.

* * *

The last thing she wanted was Benedict here to witness this and what had she done? She’d invited him to
stay
just because her temper had gotten the best of her. She had no one to blame but herself. She’d let her temper get the better of her and now Benedict wasn’t just staying for the duration of the party, he was also her confederate in this mad scheme to entrap a husband. Perhaps the question she needed to ask herself wasn’t what had she done, but why she had done it?

From the
moment she’d set eyes on him in the drawing room, she’d intended to send him right back to wherever he’d come from. In the office, those intentions had evaporated. She should
not
have been alone with him. Bad things always happened when they were alone together, only they didn’t seem bad at the time. Just like her idea to have him coach her in her husband hunt.

Sarah stared at her pale reflection in the mirror, letting her maid dress her hair as she wanted. Sarah had more pressing thoughts on her mind. She felt like her very own Greek myth, the sort where the hero gets banished to the underworld and relives his greatest failing day after day after day; Sisyphus with his rock or Prometheus with his eternally ravaged liver. Only in this case, the organ in question was her heart. Benedict DeBreed seemed destined to tear it out again and again after she’d so carefully pieced the poor thing back together.

“Hello, Sarah.”

Speak of the devil! She startled, a gasp of surprise escaping her as she caught sight of Benedict in the mirror. Sarah watched as his reflection shut the door carefully behind him. She waved the maid away and rose, ready to confront this latest intrusion. “Are you determined to see me publicly ruined? First, you barge into my house party and now you’ve entered my quarters in the broad light of day!”

Yet his presence in her room made her pulse race in a manner that wasn’t solely about anger. There was excitement mixed there, too, just as there had been in the drawing room. The very sight of him had always provoked such a response from her; the sharp green eyes, the tousled hair with its reddish hints that never looked quite tamed even when it was, much like the man himself.

Benedict gave a wolfish smile. “Send your maid away, Sarah, or I will. You left before we could finish our conversation.”

“I had said all that I needed to,” Sarah answered, nodding for the maid to go. Benedict had no scruples. He would say his piece with or without an audience. Since one could never be sure what Benedict might reveal, no audience was preferable.

“But I didn’t.” Benedict began to walk about the room, stopping every now and then to finger a knickknack or study a personal item. He ran his hand over the back of a chair by the window. A little tremor shot down her back, heat started to pool low in her belly. With each touch it was almost as if he was touching her, caressing her. Her body hadn’t forgotten and now she was alone with him,
again
. The very situation she’d just counseled herself to avoid.

“I’m hardly dressed for conversation.” Sarah gathered the folds of her satin dressing gown about her, realizing too late the effort did nothing but draw the fabric tight across her breasts and call attention to the fact that she wore nothing beneath it—a fact that was not lost on Benedict.

Benedict halted his perambulations and faced her, his eyes resting deliberately on her breasts. “You’re dressed perfectly for the conversation I mean to have.” The light from the window streamed behind him, turning his hair the color of fall, a wild rich mix of auburn and tan and gold. Was there any man as handsome? He could steal her breath without trying. “In answer to your question, am I determined to ruin you? No, but I am determined, Sarah—determined to make you reconsider the madness of your gambit. Ren would not approve.”

“Ren is not here. Ren did not foresee these circumstances.” The vehemence in her tone surprised even her. She’d not realized just how deep her resentment ran. She loved her brother, she’d condoned his choice to go to the Caribbean. But she regretted being left behind.

Benedict stepped forward, starting to close the distance between them, his eyes glittering dangerously. “You are operating from a position of fear, Sarah. Wait this storm out. Ren will make a go of that plantation and there will be funds aplenty if you can outlast this latest misfortune.”

Sarah shook her head. “The family solicitors assure me we cannot wait. The time for waiting has passed. If I sell anything else people will know the rumors are true and we’ll be shamed. No one will want Annaliese. She is to come out next year, you know. She needs a dowry. Ren’s success will not be in time. We need a marriage and we need it now!” Did no one understand? Once, Benedict had understood, had known, everything about her.

He was close enough now that she could touch him. She seized the lapels of his long riding coat. “If you care for Ren at all, Benedict, you will help me see this thing done.”

His hands covered hers where they lay on his coat. His voice was gruff as he said, “I care about Ren, he is my best friend. But I care about you more, Sarah. I will not let you throw yourself away on an empty marriage. If you will not listen to my words, listen to the logic of your body.”

It was all the warning she had before Benedict’s mouth, hot and demanding, closed over hers. His arms drew her against him, his body hard where it met hers, all ridged planes pressed to the yielding softness of satin. She knew with a certainty it had been a mistake to be alone with him. He was going to make her pay for that mistake and, heaven help her, she was going to like it.

Chapter Four

He backed her to the bed, her knees buckling so that she half lay on the coverlet, her robe falling open. She reached for the gaping halves but Benedict’s hands were faster, imprisoning her wrists with his grip. “Never hide from me, Sarah.” The want in his voice was unmistakable and it fired her blood as she looked up at the man looming over her. No one had ever roused her as Benedict could. She was a wanton in his presence. She no longer cared that her robe lay open, that it exposed her entirely. Her breasts, the thatch of hair guarding her private entrance—all of it was open to him and she let his eyes feast, his mouth feast.

He latched on to a breast, licking and sucking until she moaned and arched into him, his mouth moving downward to her navel. He pressed a delicate kiss to her stomach, sending a flutter through her, the gentleness of the gesture at delicious odds with his roughness. Then he moved down to her mons pubis and kissed her hair. His hands released hers so that he could spread her legs wide, and they dangled over the edge of the bed. Oh, God! Her freed hands dug into the coverlet. Had anything felt so wicked and seemed so good? She fought the moan that welled in her throat.

His hands braced on her thighs, his thumbs parting her slick folds, his auburn head bent to her, and then his tongue flicked across the tiny nub hidden among the folds and a cry escaped; a gasp, a sob, at the exquisite dart of pleasure shooting through her. It was only the beginning. Again and again, his tongue sent desire through her, the intensity increasing until she was oblivious to all else but the pleasure of Benedict’s mouth on her, until she broke against him, pleasure wresting a final ululation of joy from her.

If a person could float without water, she was doing it. She felt great—peaceful, rested, her cares seemed miles from the cocoon of her room. She was aware of Benedict laying beside her, his body half on, half off the bed, his head propped in a hand, his gaze intent on her, a hand pushing a strand of loose hair back from her face. She wanted to feel like this forever.

“You can’t possibly think any man in your drawing room can do that for you. Marry one of them and you’ll be giving
that
up.” Benedict’s voice penetrated her rosy haze, reality returning with a thud.

She felt sick at the reminder. Of course that’s what this was. A lesson, a rather vivid lesson, not only about the consequences of what she was doing, of what she was losing, but also a lesson about Benedict. Great pleasure came with great consequences. It always had with him. He might profess to care for her, but there was a limit to what he’d do about it.

Sarah struggled to sit up, her temper rising in the absence of pleasure’s wake. She pulled her robe closed. “This was a mistake. It’s always a mistake with you.” They were cruel words that she only half meant. Some mistakes were worth making, apparently, and worth repeating.

Benedict’s eyes flared and he rolled off the bed. The comment had stung. She’d hurt him. Well, good. He’d been hurting her for years; he’d taken her virtue, making her believe he was going to offer for her, then he’d abandoned her and spent the last three years parading a line of women in front of her knowing full well she’d hear of his conquests.

His eyes met hers, hard green emeralds where hot green desire had so recently resided. His parting words were terse and simple. “I’m sorry you think that.”

It took all her willpower not to call him back, not to beg forgiveness for her words, words she didn’t entirely mean, but words she had to mean for her own sanity. He could and would promise her nothing she needed. That it could be different was a ridiculous notion. Benedict had enjoyed the attentions of over two hundred women during his sojourn in Town, if the gossips were to be believed. He was a master at his craft and she was merely one of the women he’d mastered.
That
was the sort of thing she had to remember to maintain the detachment she needed to make the biggest decision of her life.

At the door, Benedict halted, his hand on the knob, his head bowed slightly before he straightened. He drew a breath and she heard him exhale. He did not turn toward her when he spoke. “The man you want is Viscount Brisbourne. He’s the best of the lot. If you don’t take him, Miss Elmore will.”

Sarah swallowed, her eyes riveted on the breadth of Benedict’s back. Why wouldn’t he look at her? “All right,” she said slowly, hardly able to form words let alone recall the viscount’s face at the moment.

Benedict wasn’t done. “Brisbourne is politically active in raising half pay for soldiers because of his brother’s war injury, he prefers French brandy when he drinks but always in moderation, he cautiously favors reform for the working classes. He wants a political career and needs a well-connected wife more than he needs a rich one. Miss Elmore’s five thousand pounds and connections in the lower echelons of society will pale against the grandeur of the Dryden name. If you want him, you can easily take him from her.” He paused. Sarah followed the flick of his gaze as it drifted toward her armoire door, where her evening gown hung. The gown was a pretty, expensive
satin-de-laine
done up in a shade her dressmaker called “ashes of roses.”

“Is that what you’re going to wear?” Benedict’s voice was all gravel.

“Yes.” Her voice was barely more than a choked whisper, her throat suddenly dry. She watched the back of his head give a curt nod.

“As for his favorite color, it will be pink once he sees you in it.” With that, Benedict slipped out the door as quietly as he’d come.