The Dangerous Lord (24 page)

Her eyes flew open. “Wh-what are you…” She trailed off as another of his fingers joined the first, driving in and out of her in heated strokes that made her squirm. “Oh, Ian…heavens…
Ian
…”

Only the fickle firelight illuminated his features, which shone triumphant and mysterious, and lent an unearthly quality to what he did with his fingers….

His wicked fingers…tempting and plucking at her, coaxing her to sway forward on knees gone weak.

He caught her with his other arm, his breathing as ragged now as her own. “Felicity, you do know…how a man makes love to a woman, don't you?”

“Like…like this,” she whispered.

“Not quite like this.”

Taking her hand, he flattened it against the bulge in his tight trousers, which seemed larger than before. “
This
is what I want to put inside you, the way my fingers are inside you now.”

“I-I know,” she choked out, absurdly pleased he would take the time to explain it.

“You mean you've done this before?” he rasped, a note of incredulity in his voice. His fingers delved even deeper
inside her with a silken stroke so delicious she arched against his palm.

“Wh-what?” She couldn't think, could barely register the question. The wild fluttering between her legs now pulsed like the beating of her heart, and his fingers only increased the tempo. “Oh…no…I-I haven't…Lord Faringdon's son described it…told me once…what he wanted to do…to me. But I didn't…let him…”

His jaw tightened. “Lord Faringdon's son is a dead man.”

At the sight of his thunderous expression, she couldn't prevent the giggle that bubbled up through her throat. “Y-You're jealous.”

“Not at all. You see, I have you and he doesn't.” Still, he gave her a possessive kiss that nearly shattered her. It matched the possessive thrusts of his fingers, heightening the throbbing between her legs into an unbearable ache.

Which is why the sudden withdrawal of his fingers made her whimper in disappointment beneath his mouth. He ended the kiss with a chuckle. “Don't worry,
querida
, your cravings will be satisfied. And so will mine, thank God.”

He sat down on the bed to drag off his boots, then stood and peeled off his trousers and his stockings as she watched with disgraceful interest. How did he know that she craved something? How did he know what it was, when she didn't even know herself?

Then he jerked off his smallclothes, and she uttered a distinctly unladylike oath. The instrument that sprang proudly from between his muscled thighs was thick and rigid.
That
was what she'd been fondling? Oh, my Lord.

“Take off your chemise,” he ordered. When she stiffened at the command, he added in a softer tone, “Please? I want to see you. All of you.”

When she still hesitated, transfixed by the sight of his naked member, he stepped close and caught her chemise in his hands, pulling it over her head in one swift motion.
With sudden shyness, she sank back on her heels and crossed her hands over her chest.

“Don't,
querida
. You've nothing to be ashamed of.” He drew her arms away from her breasts, and his eyes turned molten as they feasted on her body. “Nothing at all. Your body would make Venus cry with envy.”

Such poetic words from a man who hid his thoughts so well—yet he wasn't hiding them now. Admiration shone in his face, sparking a most improper pride in her. As a young woman, she'd cursed the female attributes that drew unwanted attention to her when she'd accompanied her father. But now she relished them, because they made Ian want her.

God preserve her, she'd fallen far.

And he clearly meant for her to fall farther still. His mouth caught hers in a heart-stopping kiss, and his hands were all over her, fondling her waist and breasts and thighs with such expert care that she cooperated eagerly when he shifted her back to lie prone on the bed. Then he knelt between her legs, looming over her like some brooding creature of the dark, every inch of his body taut with his need.

She felt open, exposed fully beneath him, but the sensation vanished when he bent his head to suck first one breast and then the other. The fluttering between her legs began again, more urgent and piercing this time. He read her body only too well, reaching down to soothe where she ached with clever, pleasing strokes of his fingers. Only when she writhed and groaned beneath him did he part her secret lips with his hand and guide his member inside her.

The intrusion shattered her exquisite pleasure. “Good Lord, Ian!” The part of him pressing into her was larger and harder than she'd imagined. “You can't…it's not…” She started to say “right,” but realized that wasn't true. It felt right, having him inside her like this. Invasive and unfamiliar…but
right
.

“It will only hurt a moment,” he promised, inching farther inside. A shock of hair dropped over his brow to shield his eyes from her, but the fierce set to his mouth made her worry that he might be having a bit of trouble himself.

“Is it supposed to…I mean—”

“Yes.” He flashed her a pained smile. “You're a virgin, Felicity. And the first time a man enters a virgin, it's like…breaching a wall.”

The battle metaphor didn't exactly comfort her. “You ought to know.”

“Actually…” He paused in his movements, a spasm of both torment and pleasure crossing his face. “I've never had a virgin.”

“Well, you have one now.” She wriggled back and forth, futilely trying to find a comfortable position beneath him.

“Not for long, with you doing that,” he growled, then thrust boldly forward.

A pinch of pain made her gasp, then was gone. But now he was planted so deeply inside her she dared not breathe, much less move. It wasn't an entirely unpleasant sensation. Still, she would have thought there was more to lovemaking than this. “Ian…is this…are we…done?”

“Done?” His shoulder muscles were strained taut from the effort of holding himself off of her, but he managed a smile. “Oh, no,
querida
. Though I think we can…safely say the wall has been breached.”

He drew out, then pushed in again, and the motion was so intimate, so intriguing that her eyes went wide in surprise. God preserve her, there
was
more. His slow, careful movements enchanted her, though they seemed to cost him some effort. Indeed, when his head swooped down and his lips seized her breast, his mouth plundered and drew hard on her while his lower body still only coaxed.

But his patience soon had the desired effect as her body began to adjust to his size, and then even relish it. The exotic yearnings he'd roused earlier returned with a ven
geance, making her writhe beneath him and clutch at his waist to get more, feel more, have him deeper inside her.

He needed no more encouragement than that. Increasing the pace, his body thundered rampantly above her, inside her. The bed shook with the force of his thrusts, yet she urged him on with low, wanton moans.

He dragged his lips from her throbbing breast to whisper, “
Querida
, you're mine. Mine only.” The leaping firelight made his midnight eyes and urgent expression seem almost demonic as he rocked wildly against her. “I won't let you go now. Not ever.”

She shook her head from side to side, wanting to deny his claim even as she embraced it. Like a sultan possessing and never being possessed, he held her in thrall with silken chains.

But oh, how sweet the chains. The more she struggled, the more she grew entangled in them until she couldn't think except to think of him, couldn't breathe without breathing him in. He'd invaded her and now would conquer her, too. And she welcomed the conquest, damn him. Welcomed him inside her, as he'd known she would.

The ache rose again in her loins, pounding in her heart, driving her to buck beneath him. “Good…Lord…Ian…yes…yes!”

“Let it come…” he ground out. “Let it come, Felicity.”

The unexpected explosion wracked her, ripping a cry from her lips as her body pulsed around him. Seconds later, he drove himself to the hilt inside her and cried out in Spanish, words she didn't understand but comprehended all too well, for they mirrored her own exhilaration.

For a moment, he hovered over her with eyes closed, his head thrown back and his lips still parted on their cry. Then the unholy glimmering of the fire revealed an intense satisfaction that crept over his features, softening them…erasing the tension that had kept his brow rigid until now.

“Ah,
querida
,” was all he whispered before he withdrew,
then rolled off to sink beside her on the bed. Tugging her on top of his spent body, he curved his arms around her to plaster her to him from chest to loins.

She settled against him with a long sigh and laid her cheek upon his sweat-dampened chest. A lovely contentment spread through her exhausted limbs. She could hear his heart thunder in her ear, feel his slowing breaths riffle her hair.

No wonder he'd been so confident he could seduce her into doing his bidding. Seduction was a potent weapon indeed. It certainly explained the vast number of fallen women running around London.

If only she could stay here like this…with him…could delude herself that a marriage between them might work…

She groaned.
If only
was for children who played pretend, not for young ladies who wanted more from their husbands than financial security and babes sired in lust. Ian hadn't once spoken of love. How could he? He didn't even know what it was, having never known it himself.

A draft chilled her naked skin, and she shivered. Ian stretched out a hand to grab the coverlet, then pulled it over them and tucked it around her shoulders with such tenderness, it made her want to throw all caution to the winds.

Yet nothing had changed.

No, that wasn't true. Everything had changed. Now she had the most pressing reason of all not to marry him. If he made love like this to her every night, he would reduce her to a drooling, lovesick slave in a matter of weeks, while he continued to hold his heart—and his soul—in reserve. That possibility was too horrible to contemplate.

Pushing up off his chest, she stared down into the relaxed face of the most maddening—and tempting—man she knew. “Ian,” she began.

“Shh,” he murmured, pressing a finger to her lips. “We can talk later.”

Beneath her she felt him stir again, and her heart fluttered like a flirtatious coquette in response. Drat the man, it wouldn't be a matter of weeks. Days, more like.

Oh, who was she fooling? She wanted to be his lovesick slave this very minute.

With a self-satisfied smile, he drew her head down to capture her lips, and as he began to kiss her with lazy enjoyment, she melted all over him like butter spread on toast. Very well, she thought with a sigh when heat shot from his mouth through her body and straight down to her loins. She might as well seize one more chance at doing this with him tonight. There'd be plenty of time tomorrow for breaking the chains of slavery.

L
ying in Felicity's bed wide-awake, Ian heard a distant clock chime the hour. Two o'clock in the morning already. With a sigh, he nuzzled the scented hair of the woman who slumbered in his arms. It was time to wake her, but not so he could make love to her. He shouldn't even have done it twice, with her newly deflowered.

But if he'd hurt her the second time, she'd certainly hidden it well. He would never have dreamed that a woman with such firm ideas about morality could take to bedding so enthusiastically. Lusty wench.

His own quenchless fever stirred him erect once more, and he groaned. There'd be no more satisfaction this evening even if she
could
endure it. Tonight he must preserve the proprieties, to spare her embarrassment at the hands of her neighbors. If he stayed, they'd be sure to notice his carriage in the street come morning.

Yet he couldn't bear to disturb her peaceful sleep. With
waking would undoubtedly come remorse—Felicity wasn't the sort of woman to happily embrace her ruin. No matter how much he told her it was inevitable, she would blame herself.

And then him.

He grimaced. Well, he'd have years to make it up to her, years of long winter nights in the master bed at Chesterley and lazy summers making love in the gazebo while the scent of roses sweetened the air….

Damn it, he was hard again. Would he ever be able to think of her without having his cock shoot to attention? Bedding a woman was supposed to take the edge off desire, not sharpen the need to a fine point. Yet he wanted her now, and he would want her a hundred times more before they even reached the altar.

Footsteps sounded in the hall, and he froze. Who prowled about at this hour? One of the boys? Bloody hell, Felicity would be mortified if her brothers discovered her like this. When the steps halted outside the bedchamber door, he groaned. Touching his mouth to Felicity's ear, he murmured, “Wake up,
querida
. You must wake up.”

“Hmm?” she grumbled as a soft tapping sounded on the door.

That was followed by a muffled voice he recognized as the housekeeper's. “Miss Taylor, are you in there?” The doorknob rattled, and he thanked his good fortune that he'd thought to lock the door earlier.

“Miss Taylor!” the voice said more loudly. There was no mistaking the urgency behind the three sharp raps that followed.

Felicity shot up on top of him, her expression impossible to read in the darkness. First she glanced down at him sprawled beneath her, then at the door, then back at him. He could imagine what she was thinking, especially when she jerked a sheet up to cover herself. She started to speak to him, but he gave her a quick shake of his head.

“Come on now, luv,” the voice outside the door pleaded. “I know you're in there. Wake up. It's important!” There was the sound of keys clinking, and he groaned.

Felicity nearly vaulted out of the bed. “I'm coming, Mrs. Box!” She motioned for him to stay put, then scooped up her chemise and jerked it on over her head. “What is it? What's wrong? Is it one of the boys?”

“It's that nasty Mr. Hodges again,” Mrs. Box said through the door. “He's drunk. Says he met up with your father's trustee in a tavern and found out the truth about—”

“Wait, I'm coming out,” Felicity said, cutting Mrs. Box off. In a flash, she'd yanked on a voluminous dressing gown and tied it around her waist, then was sliding out into the hall, taking care not to let Mrs. Box see into the room.

“What's this about the butcher?” he heard her say before the door shut behind her, muffling the voices.

Quickly he climbed out of bed and lit a candle. While donning his shirt and trousers, he strained to hear the conversation that trailed off as the women apparently descended the stairs. Cursing, he searched for his Hessians until he found them lying half under the bed. As soon as he had the boots on, he eased out into the hall without bothering to put on his frock coat or waistcoat.

Voices wafted up from downstairs. The first was a man's, querulous and slurred, with the accents of a lower tradesman. “Now lookie here, Miss Taylor…I gots to have me money…”

“Keep your voice down,” Felicity urged. “Do you want to wake the entire household?”

“If that's wot it takes to get me money, I will. I don't care 'bout wakin' them brothers of yours nohow…a lot of devils, them boys…”

Ian strode to the stairs and looked over the banister. The man named Hodges, a scrawny creature in disheveled frock coat and breeches, swayed unsteadily in the midst of the ill-lit foyer below. Mrs. Box stood between Hodges and the
stairs with her back to Ian, plump hands planted on plumper hips.

A few paces away, Felicity, looking distinctly agitated, clutched her dressing gown closed at the throat. “You'll get your money as soon as Papa's estate is settled.”

“Ha! Ain't no settlement an' you damn well know it! That fancy trustee of yers were in the tavern tonight, and I asked 'im 'bout it. Tole me the truth, 'e did, 'cause 'e was drunk. The only thing yer papa left you were a pile o' debts and them four boys to feed. An' I'm plannin' to get wot's comin' to me before everybody else finds out you ain't got a penny to yer name.”

Ian had heard enough. With grim purpose, he started down the stairs.

“We can discuss this tomorrow at your shop, Mr. Hodges—” Felicity began, then squealed when the man lunged for her.

Ian vaulted down the stairs in a blind rage.

Below him, the tradesman caught hold of Felicity's shoulders. “You c'n pay me in coin or you c'n pay me in pleasure,” the man was saying as Ian neared the bottom step, “but one way or t'other you'll pay me tonight, little missy—”

Before Ian even reached the bottom, however, Felicity brought her knee up into the man's crotch, then shoved the bastard backward over the leg Mrs. Box held conveniently out behind the man's knees. The man toppled over and dropped on the marble floor bent double, his hands clutching his groin.

Mrs. Box laughed as she hovered over the moaning creature. “That's the only ‘pleasure' you'll be gettin' tonight, you damned—” She broke off as Ian rounded her and jerked the tradesman up in both fists.

Ian held the small man dangling off the ground. “You want money?” He shook the groaning man furiously. “You want money, you miserable bastard?”

“No, Ian!” Felicity cried as she ran up to him.

Insensible of anything but the insult to her, Ian shook the man again, heedless of the eyes going wide with terror and the head flopping back and forth. “You'll have your money, Hodges. But if you ever lay a hand on my fiancée again, I'll—”

“Fiancée?” Mrs. Box said, having apparently recovered her tongue.

“Ian, put the man down, damn you!” Felicity ordered. “Now!”

Ian hesitated. Then he ground out, “Fine,” and released the wretch.

Hodges's body thudded to the floor like a sack of barley, but he scrambled to his feet, half-sober and all outrage. “I dunno who you think you are, guv'nor, but—”

“He's the Viscount St. Clair, that's who he is,” Mrs. Box put in with a haughty sniff. “Y'd best not cross
him
, you fool.”

The man gulped, then dropped his gaze to examine his rumpled suit. “Viscount or no, he had no cause to grab me like that,” he mumbled. “It's a sad day when a man can't collect on his debts.”

“You weren't collecting on debts, you bloody—” Ian began.

“I'd hold my tongue if'n I were you, Mr. Hodges,” Mrs. Box said. “Now go on with you. The miss and I'll be round in the mornin' to discuss the bill.”

“To
pay
the bill,” Ian corrected her. “And the ‘miss' will not be there. My man will attend to it.” He stepped menacingly toward the butcher. “But see that you never come within a mile of Miss Taylor again, you understand? Or I swear I'll—”

“I got yer message, milord,” the man said quickly, holding up a hand. “I'm leavin' now, and I won't be back. All I wanted was me money, and if yer seein' to that—”

“I'm seeing to it,” Ian bit out.

Hodges fled.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Felicity turned on Ian, eyes blazing. “There was no call to come barging down here. I had the situation well under control—”

“Yes, I saw how ‘well under control' you had the situation! You were stirring up a hornets' nest, damn it! What the bloody hell would you have done
after
he recovered from the blow to his groin?”

Felicity's chin came up a notch. “I would have called Joseph to throw him out.”

“He couldn't throw out a mangy dog on his best day! But never fear, once we're married—”

“We are
not
going to be married! I told you before, Ian, I won't marry you, not even after…” She trailed off with an embarrassed glance at the housekeeper.

“What d'ye mean, you told him before?” Mrs. Box broke in. She regarded Ian with new interest. “Have you proposed to my mistress before tonight, milord?”

Ian started to say it was none of her concern, then thought better of it. If Felicity still intended to be stubborn about this—he might need Mrs. Box on his side. “My first proposal was a week ago, at the Worthings. Apparently your mistress needs more persuasion than most to do what's in her best interests.”

“Beg pardon, milord,” the housekeeper said tartly, her gaze taking in his scanty attire, “but I ain't sure I approve of your methods of persuasion.”

“If I'd known Felicity was destitute,” he snapped, “I wouldn't have needed such methods.”

“I am
not
destitute!” Felicity protested.

Ian fixed his gaze on Mrs. Box. “Well? Is she?”

“Mrs. Box,” Felicity threatened, “if you tell that man one word, I swear I'll dismiss you at once!”

“Never fear,” Ian assured the housekeeper, “I'll find you a place at my estate no matter what happens. Now tell me, does your mistress have an inheritance or not?”

Mrs. Box shot him a considering glance, then shook her head. “Nearly penniless she is. Her papa left them a hundred pounds per annum and a mountain of debt. James inherited the house, and it's mostly mortgaged.”

“Thank you,” Ian said tersely, returning his gaze to Felicity.

“Mrs. Box, how could you?” Felicity cried. “I thought you were my friend!”

“I was, and I am. Somebody had to do somethin', luv, and you know it. Besides, if you like the man well enough to let him bed you, you like him well enough to marry.”

The shame that spread over Felicity's reddening cheeks made Ian grimace. “That'll be all now, Mrs. Box. Felicity and I have important matters to discuss.”

Accepting his right to command her as if he'd always been her master, the housekeeper nodded and headed toward the hall. Then she paused to fix him with a warning look. “One of them matters you're discussin' best be an early weddin' date, milord. Hodges ain't likely to keep his mouth shut for long, and since he saw you here, he'll guess that you and the girl were…well…”

“Will eleven
A.M
. on Christmas Eve suit you?” he asked dryly, wondering how he'd ever sunk to the point of accepting a servant's opinions on the date of his own wedding. “I'd marry her in the morning if I could, but I need time to procure a special license. As it is, that's earlier than even
I
had planned, and gives us only today and tomorrow morning to prepare—but you do have a point.”

A brilliant smile brightened the woman's work-worn face. “Then Christmas Eve it is. That would be lovely.”

As the woman walked off down the hall, Ian held his hand out to Felicity. “Come, let's return to your bedchamber. I can dress while we discuss this.”

“No, indeed. I'm not such a fool as to give you another chance to seduce me.” Though she spoke the words coldly, a bright blush accompanied them. He'd seen her blush more
in the past day than in the entire time he'd known her. He found it vastly encouraging. A woman didn't blush before a man she hated.

With a disdainful bearing more fitting of the viscountess she was soon to become than the architect's daughter she presently was, she marched past him to a door halfway down the corridor. “We can talk in the drawing room.” She turned the knob and thrust open the door. “Not that it will do you any good.”

He grabbed a candle from a nearby sconce and followed her. “You know full well that marriage is our only recourse now.” He entered the room and closed the door.

“Recourse for what?”

“In case you hadn't noticed,” he bit out, “I've compromised you, and that generally means a wedding.”

“Generally. But not necessarily.”

Headstrong witch. “Damn it, I've ruined you for any other man!”

Though she flinched at his words, she stood her ground. “I never expected to marry anyway.”

Sara's words leapt into his mind.
I should caution you that seduction might not succeed in changing Felicity's mind. She has a strong will
.

Bloody hell, he hadn't believed her, but obviously she'd understood Felicity better than he. What must he do to make Felicity listen? He set the candle carefully down on the closest table, fearful he might actually throw it in a fit of temper. He hadn't suffered from fits of temper in years. He'd striven hard to rid himself of that fault, and he had succeeded—until he met Miss Felicity Taylor.