The Passionate Love of a Rake (11 page)

Another little shrug and a sip of champagne.

He took another sip himself.

“What more, indeed?” He put the glass down beside him and leaned forward, reaching out his hand, then clasped her nape and pulled her mouth towards his.

“Robert, I—”

“No more words.” He took the glass from her hand and set it aside, then kissed her, his lips barely grazing the soft texture of hers. He could feel her willingness in the softening of the muscles in her neck as she gave herself over to his ministrations, volunteering her mouth for his exploration as her lips slowly parted and their kiss deepened.

This woman was a drug. She got into his veins. God help him. He was lost to her. His other hand settled about her ribs just below the high waist of her gown, and his thumb stroked the first curve of her breast.

“I shouldn’t,” she whispered, standing to escape him, but he caught her hand, stopping her retreat.

Still sitting on the stone rim, Robert opened his thighs, drawing her to stand between his legs, and looked up, holding her uncertain gaze.

“You definitely should,” he answered, one hand still holding hers while the other lifted, and he brushed the backs of his fingers over the full curve of her breast, his eyes falling to watch it.

She didn’t move away but let him touch.

His hand turned, and his fingers slipped her gown from her right shoulder. Her skin was softer, silkier than the high-priced material. His fingertips followed her collar bone.

She sighed, and he looked up, meeting her gaze. She was watching him.

His fingers dipped beneath the fabric and cupped her breast.

She did not stop him.

The constant splash of running water rang in the air. He kneaded her gently as she stood still.

She was like a statue cast in marble and dressed in shadows, except she was warm. Her breathing quickened and pressed her breast more firmly into his palm.

She wore no chemise tonight, no stays.

Desire roared inside him like a ravenous monster, waiting for its moment to be freed from its cage.

He watched her gaze turn visionless, focusing on feeling rather than him. Then he lifted her breast free from the satin fabric, let her hand go, and clasped her buttock, too, as he kissed her nipple.

An odd, startled sound escaped her throat, and her outstretched fingers slipped into his hair.

He took her taut nipple into his mouth. It was delicate, exquisite, and cupping it on his tongue, he sucked her with a gentle tug.

The woman was a wonder, such innocent, unadulterated giving. Her body arched, pressing closer, and her head tipped back, lifting her breasts a little. Her breathing had fractured.

“
Robert.
”

He liked his name on her tongue, especially when it was spoken with such primal longing. He rose, suddenly desperate for more, a slight groan escaping his throat. His hands settled at her waist, holding her steady as he kissed her again, heatedly taking all she’d give.

“I want to be inside you,” he whispered into her mouth, pulling away a little.

Her eyes had been closed, but they suddenly opened and literally shone with desire.

“I need you so badly,” he urged again; her body was so compliant, it felt like butter to his touch.

“Yes, Jane?” he asked as he hastened her backward, stumbling the few steps it took to press her to the hedge. He kissed her again, and her mouth clung to his, kissing him back with just as ardent hunger. It was answer enough for him. His fingers began working up the fabric of her gown, bunching it in a clawing grip, until his hand finally breached its hem. Then his fingers were touching hallowed ground. She wore no underwear at all. He worshipped her,
there
.

A soft whimper left her throat. It was an exquisite sound that expressed gratitude and disbelief as his fingers worked the elemental pattern of entry and withdrawal, and he kissed her, deeply.

Her head tipped back against the hedge as she lost the power to kiss him back, and she whimpered again, a slight, impassioned sound.

He knew she had forgotten where they were, forgotten they were in a public place. He pressed her on, wishing her to reach conclusion, and he knew it was coming when she bit her lip and gripped his shoulders. He set her adrift and felt her tumble, felt her fluid warmth as she cried out.

He reached to undo his flap.

Sod his desire for slow exploration with Jane. He wanted her, and now, she’d be his. She was ready, and he’d not risk waiting. A desperate hunger and thirst dried his mouth as he fumbled with the buttons and kissed her neck. Then he was free and his hands cupped her buttocks to lift her from the ground. “Put your legs about me,” his desperation declared in a dry, throaty growl against her ear.

It was as though he’d thrown her into the water, she changed so dramatically. Her fingers clawed and bit into his scalp, and she thrust him away.

“No!”

He stepped back, his hands gripping her waist again to steady himself. “Jane?” There was a hollow note of pleading in his voice he really did not like. He could not believe she’d done this to him twice.

“What the hell?” His temper rose like a floodtide, overflowing.

Her hands were at her sides, gripping at the thin branches of the hedge behind her. She looked startled,
vulnerable
, and absolutely terrified. Yet a moment ago, she’d been soft clay in his hands, her little sighs of pleasure echoing into the night.

He turned away and secured his breeches, leaving her to straighten her clothing, too. Then he stalked back to the pond, leaned over the water, cupped his hands and doused his face. It struck his skin, harshly cold, before dripping away. He used a handkerchief to dry his face, then slicked back his hair with shaking fingers.

Hell.

Her gentle touch settled on his back.

“I’m sorry, Robert. I …  I am …  I cannot. Not here.”

He turned to look at her, filled with desperation more than disappointment. “Where then, Jane? And when?”

Her gaze met his, loaded with apology and regret.

The answer was clear; probably never – nowhere. This was a bloody game of chance, like the tricksters that worked the streets, drawing you in with one win, only to find that after that the damn queen of hearts was nowhere to be seen.

“Never mind,” he whispered roughly. “I’ll take you back.”

“I don’t want to go back,” she countered, her fingers gently capturing his before he had chance to turn away. Her eyes shone in the moonlight. “Can we not just talk for a moment? I need you to understand, it is not because it is you. I am just not ready for this. I don’t want a fleeting affair or a single liaison. Not with you. Not with anyone, Robert.” Her gaze was intense, as though what she was trying to say was something completely different.

She utterly confounded him.

She must have realised he was in no state to comprehend her silent message, and she sighed with what sounded like exhaustion. “I’m sorry. I understand if you’re angry with me, but actually, I have changed my mind. I think I would like your friendship. Yet, I cannot offer you anything more, Robert.” She let go of his hand, and her eyes looked at the pond. “I don’t think I could cope with your desertion at the moment, if you did not … ” Her whisper drifted away somewhere in the direction of the pond.

Did not what? Stay with her? The implication hit him in the gut. She’d bloody well deserted him. But regardless, he slipped his fingers beneath her chin and turned her face up to him. It was in shadow; the moonlight lay on her hair.

The tumbling fountain played on beside them, and over it, he heard the first few, clear notes of a waltz stretch from the ballroom beyond the hedges.

He could be angry. He could be nonchalant or vindictive. But this was Jane, and, God help him, even if these small tokens of affection and friendship were all he got in return, he wanted to be in the game, no matter what the stakes. If all she did was throw him a bloody scrap beneath the table, he’d still come to heel.

He pressed a soft kiss on her lips, telling her with the touch of his mouth, if not with words, if this was indeed all she could give, he would take it, just as it was, just this.

“Shall we begin again?” he whispered over her lips, then stepped back and took her hand before bowing over it. “Would you care for this waltz, Your Grace?”

The silver moonlight caught her lips as she gave him a warm smile. “I would be honoured to accept.” This was his fictional Jane.

He needed no further encouragement and lifted her hand, clasping it more firmly and forming the frame for the dance. His other hand settled at her back, his thumb on bare flesh and his fingers over the silky satin.

Her hand settled on his shoulder.

He began to move, leading her into the steps and feeling her muscles play along her spine. They danced about the fountain, his eyes holding hers.

After a moment, she whispered, “We never danced a waltz before, did we?” crossing the divide of years to the treacherous territory of the past.

He’d been thinking the same thing, and somehow, the memory of things they’d done, the kisses they’d shared, the conversations they’d held, the things which had made her feel a part of him, half of him, did not make him hurt at all any more.

“No,” he answered simply, very unsure of this marsh-ridden ground. But she’d longed to dance in the hall, he’d seen that, and this was a peace offering.

“You are very good,” she whispered.

“If you say so.”

Silence.

He knew his stilted responses had scared her back into herself again. The woman was as skittish as a virgin. What did she expect him to say?
I have danced with thousands of women over the years. I am not the nineteen-year-old green youth you deserted. Of course I can dance well. I have danced in courts across the continent.
Instead, he changed the subject, perhaps not quite as ready as he had convinced himself he was to leave off being vindictive. “So, did you love Sutton then? Do you mourn him?”

She pulled back a little, he presumed to see his face better, but did not stop following the steps he led. He could see her deliberating on how he’d intended the question, trying to judge if he was being callous, cruel, or belligerent, or if he was genuinely interested, which it appeared from her expression, she very much doubted.

He smiled, gently, to fox her assessment, the tight smile which always had the ladies equally bewildered and enthralled, then wondered if, perhaps, she was, instead, working out how to answer, as she sent him a pathetic half smile back, full of self-consciousness.

She looked over his shoulder. “I would rather not talk of Sutton.”

She clearly did not dare answer. He supposed because she did not wish to upset him and open old wounds. Well, unfortunately, his wounds, he was fast discovering, were far from closed. But at this moment, he was inclined to let it drop. The pleasure of having the woman in his arms, her lithe, warm, softly pliant body so close to his, was too valuable.

Each movement generated a new caressing contact between them. Heaviness settled in his groin, and his voice dropped an octave or two as his throat dried with his thirst for her. “What do you wish to talk of then?”

As he posed the question, he deftly spun her backward, distracting his senses.

Her eyes met his once more. “Tell me about your estate, and Edward. How are things at home?”

“Home?” he asked her, his voice low and mocking. She had not lived there for years, and Sutton had sold off her father’s estate, neighbouring Robert’s, when her father had died. Edward had bought the seventy-acre plot on Robert’s behalf and leased her father’s manor out years ago.

“You know what I mean.” She shook her head at him a little, clearly annoyed. “I grew up there, on your land as much as my father’s. I cannot help but still think of your estates as part of me. Just tell me how things are. Is Davis, the butler, still there, for instance?”

Was this telling, that she still thought of his home as hers? As a child, she’d spent more time in his parents’ home than in her own. His mother once had a miniature painted of the girl, alongside his own and Edward’s. Jane had always been the daughter she’d longed for. Perhaps that was where he’d got it all wrong years ago, while he had fallen for her, she’d fallen for his home and family?

Anyway, he chose to answer. It appeared he was in an obliging mood. He’d do anything to keep her in his arms. “Yes, Davis is still there and as judgemental and bossy as ever.”

Suddenly, she narrowed the gap between them and rested her head on his shoulder. It was a sweet balm for his injured pride as her hair caressed his neck and her warm, supple body pressed against his chest. His hand cradled her against him, and he felt her thighs trace the steps against, and in between, his. Desire turned his blood as thick as treacle as a fierce lust sliced into his groin. His need for this woman was pain and pleasure.

“Edward is married, as I am sure you’ve heard.” His breath stirred the ornate decoration of her hair as he sought to restrain his physical response to her.

Her slight nod slid on his shoulder.

“He has a stepson, a fine lad, who has just started at Eton. John has a sensible head on his shoulders, which is a good thing as he will be a Duke one day. Then there are the babies, little Mary-Rose who is two, almost three, and their newest offspring, a boy, little Robbie, a rascal. Lord. He has a set of lungs on him. I told them they cursed the poor lad naming him after me.”

Her head lifted from his shoulder. “But Edward is obviously still proud of his older brother if he chose to name his son after you.”

Robert smiled. His thoughts of Edward’s family probably showed in his eyes. “I doubt it was Edward’s doing. It was more likely Ellen’s idea. My sister-in-law is determined to out me to the world as a fraud.”

“A fraud?” Jane’s brow furrowed.

His smile broadened, he was not at all inclined to explain. Ellen was the only person in the world who saw through him. Even his brother could not.

“Nothing for you to fret over,” he answered as the strains of the waltz drew to a close and he stopped.