Surrender to the Devil (23 page)

He laughed, his breath tickling her, before he returned to where he’d been. She wanted to weep, she wanted to laugh…the cataclysm slammed into her and she was screaming, screaming for him to stop, for him to go on, screaming his name as pleasure shot through her.

When she came back into herself, she was trembling and he was licking his way up her body until he reached her mouth and kissed her hungrily, so hungrily, as though he could taste what she’d just experienced.

He brushed his lips over her cheek, nibbled on her ear. “I love the sounds you make.”

He said it as though her screaming were a wonderful thing. He moved until he could look into her eyes, and she saw, in his, absolute joy, as though he were pleased with what he’d just given her. Dew glistened on his throat and shoulders. She skimmed her hands up his back and felt the tenseness in his muscles.

“This isn’t…all,” she panted.

“No, but it will be if that’s all you want.”

Studying him, she tried to make sense of his words. He would grant her pleasure and forego his own yet again? The words he’d spoken in the library so long ago took on new meaning. He’d asked to be her lover. To give with no expectation of ever receiving?

She shook her head. “I want everything. I want you.”

A slow, triumphant smile flashed across his face. “Then you shall have me.”

He shifted his weight, leaned toward the bedside table. She heard the scraping of a drawer being opened. He pulled something out—

A condom, she realized.

It was an odd moment to be disappointed, yet she understood the wisdom of it. She even appreciated his effort to protect her from scandal, but she couldn’t deny that she had a sudden desire to bring his child into the world.

She watched in fascination as he covered himself. Their eyes met as he rose above her and began to very slowly ease his body into hers. There was a tightness but no discomfort, a sensation of pleasure unfurling as he went deeper and deeper. This satisfaction, this possessiveness, was what it was to want to have a man share his body. He groaned low as he stilled. With heavy lidded eyes he grinned at her. “No pain?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Good, because I want to hear you screaming my name again—but I want it to be from pleasure, not agony.”

“Again?”

His grin grew. “Again.”

She was replete, had thought she’d be able to do little more than run her hands over him as he rocked against her, but his movements awakened something deep within her. The surprise of it had her gasping. He increased his rhythm, the power of his thrusts, until the bed was banging against the wall and she was holding onto him, digging her fingers into his buttocks, feeling the strength, the power…

His movements contained a wildness. He was uncivilized as he carried her to new heights. She did scream his name again.

Then he was growling hers through clenched teeth, his head thrown back, his body arching and thrusting, trembling and jerking.

Collapsing, he buried his face into the curve of her shoulder. She heard his harsh breathing, felt the tremors cascading through him, was aware of her own body’s quivering. Each time was more than the last. She wondered if a person could expire from too much pleasure.

Relishing the weight of his body on hers, she lightly trailed her fingers up and down his back.

“Tickles,” he muttered.

Naughtily, she skimmed her fingers along his sides. He jerked upright.

“You are a witch. Wait here.”

As though she had a choice. She would have laughed, but she had no energy. He rolled off her and padded into what she assumed was the dressing room. He returned with a towel and gently wiped the dew from her body. Then he climbed into bed and brought the covers up over them.

Lying within the curve of his arm, she listened to the steady pounding of his heart. When his breathing evened out, she lifted her head slightly and gazed down on his face. His hair was disheveled. In sleep, he had fewer lines of worry. She felt the tears sting her eyes as she realized she’d made a dreadful mistake in coming here.

She feared she’d fallen in love with the Duke of Greystone.

Frannie didn’t know what time it was when she awoke, lying on her stomach, sprawled over his bed, barely opening her eyes. What she did know was that he was no longer in bed with her. She felt his absence without even looking. Was he finished with her then?

“Don’t move.”

She opened her eyes fully. He was sitting in a chair near the bed, one leg crossed over the other in such a way to provide support for his sketch pad.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Drawing you.”

“Do you draw every woman you bed?”

He glanced up then, looking as though something significant had dawned on him. “No, actually. You’re the first I’ve ever cared about remembering.”

His words delighted her, made it more difficult not to move when she wanted to crawl into his lap and kiss him soundly. “How much longer must I remain still?”

“Just a few more moments. Then I’ll show you what I’ve done.”

“You won’t show anyone else, will you?”

“Absolutely not. These go into my private collection.”

“These?”

“You’ve given me one night. I didn’t intend to spend most of it sleeping.”

She wanted to smile or laugh, but she fought to stay completely still. She’d never known anyone who made her feel quite so appreciated. Certainly, Feagan’s lads appreciated what she did, but they didn’t make her toes curl when they looked at her.

“Can you do a self-portrait?” she asked.

“No. Why would I care for that?”

“So you could give it to me.”

He grinned. “I’m sure we could find something around here that would suffice.”

“All the paintings around here are so large that it would make it difficult to place it in a private collection.”

He winked at her, and her entire body threatened to curl into a ball of pleasure.

“We’ll find something.”

She was surprised by the drawings when he finally returned to bed to show her. They sat back against a mound of pillows while he revealed them one by one.

Her feet, one crossed over the other.

“You rub your feet together while you sleep,” he said.

“Probably a habit. They were always cold when I was younger. Coal was a rarity at Feagan’s.”

“If they get cold before you leave my bed, simply press them against me. That should warm them.”

The sheet draped over her back, one bare shoulder exposed.

“You have lovely shoulders,” he said. He leaned over and kissed one.

“You’re a very good artist.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice. My efforts will never be on display in a museum, but they relax me.”

“And you needed to relax after what we did earlier?”

He began wrapping her hair around his finger. “No, I was fairly melting into the bed.”

Her hand curled beneath her chin.

“That’s my favorite,” he said. “A bit innocent, a bit sultry. I wonder what you were dreaming.”

“About you, probably.”

“Probably? Don’t you remember?”

“I seldom remember my dreams.”

He gave her a funny look before tossing his papers to the floor and pulling her beneath him. “One night, you said, but the night’s not yet over.”

As his mouth blanketed hers, she sighed. No, no, it’s not.

Frannie had planned to leave at dawn, but just before the sun began easing over the horizon, he was making love to her again and he didn’t rush it. They both knew it would be the last time, the final time, and they savored every touch, every stroke, every kiss. When she did finally leave his bed, breakfast had been readied.

They’d gotten dressed and walked down to the breakfast dining room together. He was telling her about his adventures in learning to ride a camel. She was laughing so hard that she couldn’t eat. She loved his smile and the joy that lit his eyes. She loved—

“Your Grace, I’m sorry to disturb you, but an Inspector Swindler from Scotland Yard is here,” the butler announced.

Frannie felt her stomach knot up. Her magical world was about to clash with reality.

“Send him in,” Sterling said, just before he reached out and squeezed her hand. “It’ll be all right.”

She nodded, rising to her feet as he did. Jim strode into the room and came to an abrupt halt as his gaze fell on her. She saw the disappointment sweep over his face. She suspected it didn’t take a genius to determine what had happened here. Was it evident in her blush, which she had no ability to control?

“Inspector, would you care to join us for breakfast?” Sterling asked.

“No. I just…we were worried about you, Frannie. We didn’t know—”

“I left a note on Jack’s desk.” All she’d said was that she was going to see after Greystone, but still, it had given her whereabouts. There’d been no cause for worry. Well, except for the part where she’d promised to return yesterday.

Jim nodded. “You’re all right, then?”

“Yes, I’m very well. Thank you.”

“Sorry to have disturbed your morning.” He spun on his heel and strode out.

“Jim!” Tossing down her napkin, she rushed out after him.

“Frannie!” Sterling called after her but she ignored him.

She ran down the hallway, catching up with Jim in the foyer, grabbing his arm. “Jim.”

He spun around. She could see the concern and hurt in his green eyes. And anger, too, as though he didn’t know what exactly to feel any more than she did. “He won’t marry you, Frannie.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

“I would.” He dropped his gaze to the floor as though he couldn’t bear to see whatever her eyes might reveal. She was acutely aware of him struggling to get his emotions in check. She wanted to reach out and touch him, comfort him, but she was fairly certain he wouldn’t welcome either at that moment. He lifted his eyes to hers, and all the love he’d ever felt for her was there. “Even if his babe is growing in your belly, I’ll marry you.”

He headed for the door. The footman opened it and Jim strode through it without a backward glance.

Oh, God, what had she done? Why had she never seen that before, why had she never recognized the depth of his feelings?

“Are you all right?” Sterling asked, coming up behind her and putting his hands on her shoulders.

Tears burned her eyes. “I should leave now.”

“I’ll have the coach readied.”

She nodded, as the full measure of what they’d done and what they must now do loomed before her. Slowly, he turned her around and held her close. She inhaled his scent, absorbed his strength. Then he tipped her head up. His eyes met hers, and he began to leisurely lower his mouth—

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said softly.

He stilled. She watched his throat work as he swallowed. His arms moved slowly away from her. “It’s been my pleasure, Miss Darling.”

Leaving him standing in the entry hallway, she headed for the stairs so she could change into her clothes and return to her world. Her chest ached so badly that she thought it might cave in on itself. She wouldn’t cry here, but later, in her apartment where no one could hear her, she would let the tears fall. And she prayed that eventually they would stop.

With a sigh, Frannie placed her elbow on the desk and her chin on her palm. She was supposed to be adding numbers and instead she’d been writing Greystone, Sterling, Duke on a piece of paper at random angles. Once, she’d even written Duchess, but she scratched it out. She wouldn’t be his duchess—ever.

It had been two nights since she’d gone to his residence. She’d visited the secret balcony at least half a dozen times trying to catch a glimpse of Sterling at the gaming tables. If he was there, he was as hidden as she was.

If Jack had a problem with where she’d gone for two nights, he didn’t say anything. He’d become a little more accepting of the nobility since marrying into it and perhaps not as judgmental. Jim hadn’t stopped by. She rubbed her brow. She was dreading that encounter when it finally happened—if it ever happened. Jim might be having misgivings about how much he’d revealed regarding his feelings for her. He’d laid them bare. And dear God, help them both, she couldn’t return his affection in equal measure.

She considered going to talk with Luke. He’d once asked her to marry him, but he hadn’t loved her, not truly, not in the way that a man loved a woman. His love was the love of youth. Thank goodness, Catherine had come into his life and shown him the error of his ways.

She supposed she could talk with Catherine. After all, Sterling was her brother, but she sensed that they weren’t as close as they might have once been.

Frannie was tired, not sleeping well, because she’d begun to dream, to remember the dreams, and in every one of them Sterling was doing wicked things to her and she was screaming out his name. In some, she was being equally wicked and he was screaming out hers.

She rose from her chair and took a last look around her sparsely furnished, tidy office. She should probably move her books to the orphanage. She could work on them there and be with the children every night, instead of only visiting with them during the day. It didn’t matter where she worked on the books as long as she worked on them.

Strolling down the hallway, she removed her dagger and reached into her pocket for the key that unlocked the door to the outside. She wasn’t about to let one of Sykes’s footpads frighten her into cowering. Let someone try to attack her again. She was in the mood for a fight.

Once she was on the steps in the dim glow of a lantern hanging nearby, she closed and locked the door. She gave her eyes a moment to adjust to the shadowy and foggy gloom.

“Frannie?”

She heard the soft whisper, the almost desperate need to be heard and not heard at the same time. Turning toward the shadows, she reached up and lifted the lantern from the hook. Because she recognized the voice, she wasn’t afraid, but she was incredibly curious and cautious. “Nancy?”

A woman stepped out of the shadows. She was only two years older than Frannie, but the years had not been kind to her. Her face was hollowed-out cheeks and eyes, dark circles and smudges that might have been dirt but were most likely bruises. “How ye be?”