Surrender to the Devil (22 page)

“Feagan’s Children’s Home? Is that an honor he deserves?”

She took a sip of wine, and then another. She knew that Greystone wanted nothing more from her than a night in his bed, but still she felt obligated to ask, “Would you think less of me if you knew that I believe he might be my father?”

Swirling the wine in his wineglass, he seemed to ruminate the implications. “I may give credence to a person’s elevation in society based on his ancestors, but of late I’ve learned to judge the individual on his own accomplishments and merits.”

She smiled at him. “Then I find you to be rare indeed.”

“If he were your father, wouldn’t he claim so?”

“I would have thought. I asked Jack once. Jack knows so many secrets.”

“What did he say?”

“He avoided answering. I’m not sure if it’s because whatever the answer, he thought I’d find it disappointing or if he was trying to protect me.”

“Secrets have a way of always coming out.”

“Have you secrets, Sterling?”

“We all have secrets.”

But she couldn’t imagine that his were nearly as dark as hers.

Dressed in one of Catherine’s nightgowns, Frannie sat at the vanity brushing out her hair. A hundred strokes. It had been one of Feagan’s rules. She’d often wondered if a lady in his life had brushed out her hair for him. Had he loved her? Had she loved him? He was so secretive about his past. But tonight she didn’t want to reflect on where she’d come from. She was interested in only where she might be going.

Sterling had said good night to her at the bedchamber door, giving the impression that he truly meant good night. He would not come to this room. He wouldn’t come for her.

The choice as to whether or not they’d ever lie together was hers—because he would never marry her, and so he was leaving the decision to her. She met her gaze in the reflection in the mirror. To willingly go to a man who would not make an honest woman of her…

But was it more dishonest to deny herself the pleasure of his bed when she wanted it so desperately? Following the opera, he’d given her a taste of the pleasure she’d find in his arms.

It had been eighteen years since a man had taken possession of her. She’d locked away the disgust of those pudgy hands pinching and pulling. She’d forced into darkened corners the memory of his body ramming into hers, the pain, the blood, the echo of her screams, the reverberation of his hideous laughter…

But they were there, waiting to be replaced by something strong enough to destroy them.

Within his bedchamber, Sterling sat in a chair near the fireplace, staring at the dying embers, watching them diminish until they were nothing, similar to the way that his eyesight was diminishing. Other than the faint light emitted by the hearth, the only glow came from the low light in the lamp near his bed. He wore only trousers and the bandage on his wound. Because he was breathing more easily, he’d removed the narrow strip of binding around his chest.

From the moment he’d kissed Frannie in Claybourne’s library, he’d sought to seduce her, to lure her to his bed. Yet he’d been the one seduced into being a better man than he was. He’d decided to let her go without ever knowing the full taste of her. She humbled him beyond measure with her Dickens, and her orphans, and her ability to ferret out noble intentions even in those with a criminal past. In his world, there was right and wrong, good and evil. Hers contained no absolutes. Hers was a world of grays. Hers was what his was truly becoming. The irony didn’t escape him. At night, nothing was clear. Lines blurred. Shadows removed definitions.

Her dreams led her to the darkest parts of London where he couldn’t follow and keep her safe. His dreams had ceased to exist long ago. He would carry out his duties and he would see to his responsibilities. But none of them would include her—even if he wanted to include her, she didn’t want the life of an aristocrat. He couldn’t turn away from the legacy that had been handed down to him. He’d pay a much higher price to honor his title than his father had ever imagined.

He heard the click of the door opening. Satisfaction swamped him. Even if she was here to only sleep in his arms, he would take contentment with that. He would adopt her tendency to find joy in the smallest of pleasures. Sleeping with her nestled against his side was the sweetest of all.

Setting aside his brandy snifter, he rose and turned. She stood at the foot of his bed, one hand wrapped around the post. On bare, silent feet, he walked across the thick carpet until she was a whisper’s breath away.

She lifted her gaze to his. Within her green eyes, he saw no fear, no apprehension, no doubt.

“I want one night with you,” she whispered softly.

He was unprepared for the force of her words—as though she’d punched him in the heart. Until that moment he’d been deceiving himself into believing that he could live without her because he’d never expected to truly possess her. And now here she was, her mixture of innocence and bravado charming him as no other lady ever had.

“Then one night you shall have.” Because he couldn’t deny her any more than he could deny himself. Sliding his arms around her, he brought her up against him and lowered his mouth to hers.

Frannie welcomed him as she might air to breathe or sun to warm. His brandy taste was an aphrodisiac, igniting the flames of desire until they were spreading through her body, heating her core, licking at her fingertips. She glided her fingers up his bare arms and felt the muscles rippling beneath her palms. His strength was palpable, his determination evident. His kiss was more aggressive than any he’d ever given her, as though with her surrender, whatever beasts of pleasure that had been lying in wait were now unleashed.

Breathing harshly, he trailed his hot mouth along her throat, his tongue swirling over her skin, his teeth nipping. “Stop me if I frighten you, but know that I will not hurt you, but neither can I go gently. I want you too badly, have been patient too long.”

He’d once warned her that he was no longer civilized. It was here she realized where his warning held the most credence as the gown that separated their flesh was ripped asunder, pooling at her feet before she’d even realized what he’d intended. And then, as though the beast had been satisfied, he touched her with the gentlest of hands that skimmed over her curves. Strange that she didn’t feel exposed, that she had no desire to cover herself. Rather she wanted to light additional lamps, gather up lighted candles and reveal all she had to offer him. She who had once been shy about her womanhood was now glorying in it.

“Dear God, but you are beautiful. I knew you would be.” He lifted his gaze to hers and held it. “Tell me what you don’t want.”

“I don’t want you to treat me as though I’m vulnerable or might shatter. I want you to treat me as you would any other woman you’ve known.”

“You are nothing like any other woman I’ve ever known. Never make the mistake of thinking that you are or could ever be.”

His mouth came back to hers, kissing her deeply. Her breasts flattened against the warm plane of his chest. She glided her hands down his thighs, then glided them up between them until she cupped through his trousers what she’d felt pressing against her that morning. He released a gravelly groan, broke off the kiss, and stood perfectly still as though giving her leave to explore, to do as she would.

Licking her lips, her mouth suddenly dry, she lowered her gaze to the hard bulge in his trousers. She had no misconceptions regarding the power presently leashed behind a few straining buttons. It was a wonder they weren’t popping off and spinning on the floor.

“It won’t hurt you,” he rasped as he skimmed his mouth along her temple.

“I know. Because you won’t hurt me.”

His mouth went still, and she was incredibly aware of the tension in his muscles, the light beads of sweat that coated the cords of his neck. His hand moved to the top button—

“I’ll do it,” she said quickly, placing her hand over his and nudging it aside. The buttons popped free as though grateful for the freedom, and she realized he wore nothing except trousers. But her fingers didn’t falter. Instead they hastened to reveal what cloth held hidden. He shucked his trousers down until he stood before her, erect, proud, and utterly magnificent. She lifted her eyes to his. “You’re beautiful as well.”

The worry she’d seen in the deep blue of his eyes dissipated. He laughed and lifted her into his arms.

“We’re going to have a jolly good time, Frannie,” he said as he laid her out on the cool satin sheets.

She was more beautiful than Sterling had expected, more bold than he’d dared hope for. Whatever experiences may have tarnished her past, she’d not brought them with her to his bed. She was coy. She didn’t turn away from him or pretend embarrassment. She received him as the most highly paid courtesan might, with a seductive smile and welcoming arms.

But she was there not because of any coins he might have given her. She was there solely for the pleasure they could bring each other. He’d never wanted a woman more. His body ached with the need to possess her, but he had no plans to rush the moment. He’d have only one night with her, but he wanted it to be one that would last his lifetime. He was fairly certain he’d never find another woman as courageous, determined, and intriguing as she was. Any moment not spent in her company was an empty moment. As he stretched out beside her and skimmed his hands over her, relished the gliding of her hands over him, he didn’t want to contemplate the never-ending spectrum of empty moments that might lie ahead.

“I wonder what would happen to your fair skin if the sun kissed it in the desert,” he murmured.

“You mean remove my clothes outside?”

Giving her a devilish grin, he arched a brow at her. Her eyes scanned the length of him. “Did you do that?”

“Once or twice.”

Her fingers trailed up his thigh, skimmed around to his buttocks, stopped. Tickled. “What’s that?”

Sitting up she leaned over and looked at his buttocks. Gently, she feathered her fingers over the five ragged scars that ran from his hip down as though the wounds were fresh and still causing him pain.

“Tiger,” he said. “I didn’t see him until he was upon me. Fortunately, Lord Wexford is an amazing shot.”

“You could have been killed.”

“And instead, now a tiger skin adorns the floor in Wexford’s study. I thought women found scars rakish.”

“I don’t mind their appearance. I just don’t like that you were once so badly hurt.”

Powerful words from a lady who carried her scars inside. Cradling her neck with one hand, he brought her back down to the pillow. “How can you have so much compassion and no bitterness?”

She gave no answer to that. He expected none, truly wanted none as he kissed her. He’d explored many women during his travels but none with the intensity that he wished to explore her. The others were merely passing fancies. She was more. She was the reason he skulked around in alleyways and had food prepared for little thieves. She was the reason he now understood the sentiments that drove a man to kill.

It was as though before her, each of his emotions had lain dormant. He’d never known such intense anger, or jealousy, or joy, or…love.

His thoughts faltered. No, it was not love that he felt. Infatuation, adoration. But not love. Nothing as binding. She would walk away from him and he’d allow her to take nothing of him with her. But while she was there, in his bed, he would strive to give her much by which to remember him.

Frannie had known he was a man of passion. What she hadn’t expected was the way he touched her as though he could never have enough of touching her—not only with his hands, but with his mouth.

He swirled his tongue around her nipple until it pebbled, then closed his mouth greedily around it. She raked her fingernails through his thick hair, dug her fingers into his shoulders, skimmed the sole of one foot up his calf. Pleasure ebbed and flowed until she thought she would go mad with the wanting for release. Patiently his mouth journeyed to her other breast. She, a child of the streets, had never known such reverence, had never expected it, especially of a man whose life was so above the squalor.

Here, in his bed, she found what she’d never hoped to hold—unselfish giving and receiving, a sense of evenness that was difficult to explain. He knew of her past, but because he hadn’t witnessed it, he wasn’t obsessed with guilt over what he’d been unable to prevent. He didn’t treat her as though she was fine china that would shatter with too much pressure. He squeezed and he coaxed and he trailed his mouth along her stomach, across her hip, down her thigh.

He lifted his head to give her the most wicked smile she’d ever seen, one that promised adventures, delight, the sun kissing her skin. He gently nudged her thigh and she opened herself to him. He moved this way and that until he was nestled between her legs, his open mouth heating her stomach. And then he journeyed lower and lower…

She thought she should have been afraid or at the very least wary, but she realized with startling clarity that she trusted him to never hurt her, to never cause her discomfort, to never betray these tender feelings that allowed her to come to his bed when she’d never gone willingly to the bed of another man.

Then his tongue stroked and swirled intimately. She released a sigh of pleasure as her back arched and her hips jerked. She felt as though her body was the world and he was traveling across it, sampling every aspect. She wanted to do the same to him. Would he think her bold or wanton?

Did it matter? Did anything matter when he was causing her body to sing? Oh, she felt as though she were an operatic song, rising in crescendo. Her breathing became harsh and rapid. Her breasts tightened, her stomach grew taut. His mouth and fingers were creating sensations more vivid than what she’d experienced on his sofa. Where was her selfish duke who cared only about his own pleasures? Was he enjoying this as much as she?

Then the questions dissipated as the pleasure spiraled…

“Oh, God, you should stop now,” she rasped, digging her fingers into his shoulders.