Her Wicked LibertineEDIT

by Torquay, Lisa

  “Fine,” she answered simply.

  It seemed she would have to find the courage to face her own carnal demands where this man was concerned. What didn’t kill you, made you stronger. Hopefully. Though her weaknesses acquired an enormous role in her point of view.

  As she turned to leave, she heard his smug voice. “Have a good day.”

  Before her situation overwhelmed her, she took refuge in her chambers and her work.

  In the middle of a busy morning at the warehouse, Harris craved whisky. The good one produced in the far-away Highlands where he had been born. Not a dram, not a glass. An entire bottle, a whole crate of it.

  He sat by his desk, his mind raging battle in and on itself. The chit had him tied in knots. For a variation, she threw him in a stormy sea where he clashed against the rocks.

  When he demanded she touch him, he had not the slightest idea she would defeat him with only her hand on his face. Had it been on his cock, he would have understood. The second her skin connected with his, he was a lost cause. It took every drop of his self-control not to grab her to sit on his knees while he ravished her mouth and whatever else he found on the way. Behind his closed eyes, he envisioned himself tearing those rags and devouring her in a primal, unrefined manner. The mere thought had his groins throbbing as they had while he sat in that damned armchair, locking his muscles to remain unmovable.

  The taste of heaven laced with the fires of hell lasted too briefly. Or lasted for a lifetime. Too little for the hunger she carved in him. Too lengthy to endure, forcing him to exercise a restraint he wasn’t used to.

  In no time she had put distance between them and asked to call the whole thing off. The expression in her eyes, confused as if she made little sense of what had just happened, shred his guts into a thousand pieces. A foreign feeling squeezed his heart, too like guilt to ignore.

  The waves of his soul made him clash against the rocks of his mind at that turn of events.

  There was a knock on the door and Miller came in. “Didn’t I tell you I don’t want to be disturbed?” Harris as good as roared at the clerk. His mood didn’t help productivity this morning.

  The slight man hunched his shoulders. “I know, my lord, but there seems to be something wrong with one of the shipments.”

  His nostrils flared. “I told you to contact the owner of the goods.”

  “I did, my lord. Will try again.” Miller scurried out.

  Even with guilt lashing at him, the hunger Edwina had induced in him had been too bottomless for Harris to relent. He possessed ample awareness of what she had at stake. Her reputation, her future. Her life. But he found himself unable to let go of the only woman he had ever wanted in this crazed frenzy. So, he endeavoured to keep their agreement and shut down any thought to the contrary.

  Every thought to the contrary ate at him at this precise moment and contributed to his foul mood. Guilt warred with weighty desires, the former losing terrain as the latter advanced blindly. The hunger wouldn’t cede to chivalry. He never claimed to be a knight in shining armour.

  Miller stuck his head through the door.

  “What is it again?” Harris thundered.

  “I’m sorry, my lord, but Mr Brockton cannot be located.”

  Mr Brockton was Baron Enfield’s uncle and always deep in his cups. The wastrel must have fallen drunk in a club somewhere.

  Expelling air forcefully through his nostrils, Harris stood. “I’m coming.”

  Just before dinner, Harris went looking for Edwina. He had arrived home not half an hour ago and hurried to his chambers to wash.

  Shoving open the library’s door, he found her sitting quietly, immersed in a book. The noise made her head snap up and their gazes collide. He wished he could say it felt like a boulder hitting him flush on the chest. But it was much worse. It was more like a fire-breathing beast yawning its jaw and launching a whole river of fire over all of him.

  Perhaps he might attribute his reaction to the view of her sitting so serenely with that book in hand as if the world wasn’t spinning and going up in flames all around. For him, at least. Or that her demure image incited the most lustful impulses in him. He didn’t know he had a thing for prudish chits. But this one particularly shifted his guts.

  His feet led him inside, and he ensconced both in the room. “Did you have a nice day?” he asked, more interested in hearing her voice than in the answer.

  One delicate hand closed the book, keeping a finger to mark the page. She shrugged as if the question mattered little. “Work, now reading.”

  Harris prowled towards her, hands folded at his back to stifle his urge in using them on her person. His eyes darted down. “The Principles of Bookkeeping?” No chance of hiding the surprise at her choice.

  “I plan to have a small business one day. It’s important to learn this.” She said it with pride and determination.

  He couldn’t help but sprout admiration for her industriousness, but it also caused a pinch of strangeness. Few mistresses had crossed his path in life, the variety more to his taste. Those few, however, treated him as the centre of the universe. His looks and wealth ensured that. The fact she didn’t, sitting here instead of waiting eagerly for him in provocative attire and seductive smiles, struck him as unprecedented.

  “I can teach you.” He never knew he’d make such a suggestion. A sign of how much the little miss threw him.

  The glint in her eyes told him she was as stunned as him. “It’s kind of you.”

  “For a price, of course.” The condition aired before he censored it.

  The hint of enthusiasm that had lit on her dimmed. “Of course.” The muscles on her face froze, her eyes turning opaque.

  And he felt the dirtiest of men. Which he may be, no doubt. Only he preferred she didn’t get wind of it. Too late. It’d been too late from day one. She had the fullest notion of who he was; he didn’t need to hide it from her. Didn’t wish to.

  “Stand up,” he commanded.

  Her delicate brows arched. “What for?” Her arms crossed over the tome, the book a shield. “I’m not paying the price.”

  No, but it seemed he would pay it. Because she had him nearly drooling with lust. He reckoned he’d do anything, just about anything, for her to touch him the way she did that morning. With intensity, tenderness and wariness all rolled up in one stroke of that delicate, soft hand.

  “Fine, no price,” he compromised, unwilling to be that much of a scoundrel. He made for the door before he fell on his knees to beg her for any crumb she might grant him.

  “All right, I’ll pay,” came her voice from behind him.

  He froze on the spot as swishing of clothes told him she had left the armchair. He turned to her standing in the middle of the Aubusson, her brown eyes wide on him.

  Any inch of chivalry he might hold in his rotten depth vanished. She’d volunteered, who was he to renege?

  Intent, he prowled to her, hungry for the slightest morsel she offered. He halted toe to toe with the chit, lowering his head to her. The petite form of her did nefarious things to him. It gave him the impression of dominance, power, but also protectiveness—oddly enough.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked, because if she left it to him, he’d go over the board.

  Her irises bulged on him and darkened. Her throat inhaled tremulously. “I caught you looking a lot at my…b-bosom. Do you like it?” She emitted almost the exact words he did this morning.

  If the woman had the tiniest hint of what she was doing to him, she’d turn tail and run. To India. No, he’d reach her in India. Better she run to Mars. Uranus. Another galaxy. And he couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t follow.

  “Yes.” His answer came so gruffly he barely heard it.

  Their gazes remained clasped as his hand raised from his side. Feather-lightly, he let his palm line the swell over the cheap fabric, her lips opening for her to suck in air. That encouraged him. With a reverence he didn’t k
now he possessed, he caressed her breast, ambling his thumb over the nipple. It grew taut, filled his hand, filled his groin. His fingers explored that part of her, testing its size, its weight as if he made such a move for the first time in his life. His eyes lowered to watch his hand’s trip, gorging on the caress.

  The tip screamed to him, and he forgot it would be too much. His thumb and forefinger rolled the exquisite tip.

  A sound escaped Edwina, and he snapped his attention back to her to witness her eyes closing, her head falling back. Blazing hell! If she reacted like that to this superficial exploration, what wouldn’t she do when he—

  The incomplete thought hardened him to painful heights. He studied her, the picture of pleasure covered from neck to toe. Undressed, she’d kill him, slow and torturously. She’d castigate him for every single sin he’d committed, was committing, and would make him happy for that. Would have him begging for more, for the fires of hell, the horrors of the Apocalypse.

  His imagination ran wild as he saw his mouth reaching down to gobble the breast even if over that damned coarse dress. He’d suckle, wishing for the day no clothing separated them. Wishing they go live somewhere remote, so he’d order them out of the confining fabrics any hour of the day or night. He’d carry her to the middle of the jungle and inundate his mouth with those breasts while he flooded her with his seed over and over; until they forgot there was sin or penance.

  He lowered his hand lest he do exactly that. Except they weren’t in a jungle and even less undressed. They stood in the middle of a London townhouse in early spring.

  Her head came up as her eyes flayed him with a mixture of awe and a pinch of disappointment that had him nearly groaning.

  Heedless of what he was doing, he held her cheeks and dived for that sultry mouth like a prisoner of war deprived of water. And like a prisoner, he lost the battle with reason as he smashed her lips with his with no remorse. For the kiss induced him to forget guilt and relish in hunger, welcome it as it gnawed deeper and deeper in his guts. From the back of her throat came a muffled sound he hoped to be delight. It must have been because her hands came up to dive in his hair.

  Harris savoured those pieces of heaven by licking the seam, nibbling on the lower lip as she allowed him to feast and to drink and to binge on her mouth to his heart’s content.

  “Open for me,” he instructed hoarsely.

  When she did, his tongue marauded hers, the taste of her cavity driving him to drunk mindlessness. Sweet and tangy at the same time, he couldn’t get enough. He turned his head this way and the other, coaxed her to open wider, sucked and took; gave and nibbled. Her scent of jasmine with that twist of lemongrass inebriated him, shot him higher than a whole bottle of whisky. The more he took, the less it was enough. The more she moaned, the less he had control. His world comprised of that mouth, his unique wish to devour it until he went crazy, until the hunger gave, until she sated him. Her fingers in his hair nearly scalped him; the more his tongue lashed on hers, the more his mouth devastated hers. Urgency and thirst ruled him, weakened him, led him to recklessness. If she’d have him, he’d take her here, now. Once, twice, a thousand times, a thousand ways. He wondered whether he didn’t scare the life out of her, because he kissed her with such unhinged famine, it alarmed even him.

  A knock on the door wrenched him from the depths he had sunk to in drunken willingness.

  Swiftly, he pulled her away, their eyes now wide on each other. His breath serrated in and out quick and ragged. Harris perused her flushed cheeks, swollen lips, dilated irises, the mad impulse to pull her back to him and start it all over again barely contained. This time he’d not stop at any bloody thing.

  “Yes,” he answered stonily.

  Forcing himself to turn to the newly entered butler, he shielded her from the other man’s view.

  “My lord, dinner is served,” Hobson informed with his usual formality.

  “We’ll be there directly.” Harris’s brain was incapable of adding two and two; how he managed to answer, he didn’t know.

  The butler bowed and left.

  The tomb-like silence that fell in the room seemed heavier than a hundred gravestones piled on his back.

  Who the hell cared? He craved to stride back to her and take it up where they left. Then carry her to his bed and stay there the rest of the week. The rest of the year. Century. And he wondered if he’d have his fill.

  But when he looked at her, her half-mast lashes veiled her thoughts from him. Her arms crossed, bunching those breasts to mouth-watering fullness. “I’ll prepare for dinner,” she informed the carpet, disappearing quickly through the entrance.

  Restless, he paced the library, his fingers raking his already rumpled mane.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Madame Delamere bustled into the drawing room with minions in tow, carrying dozens of boxes.

  Little before luncheon, the reprobate was at work, which was a good thing since he didn’t need to hear that the clothes had arrived. If nobody told him, she wouldn’t, she deemed with a drop of rebellion.

  Two days had elapsed since she had the criminal idea of calling the cad’s bluff. At which, she’d fairly incinerated in his hands. And mouth. Good gracious, no wonder the man held the fame he did. His skills should be forbidden. He should suffer transportation for what he did to her. She’d nearly melted into a puddle at his feet. Edwina didn’t lay the blame solely on him, naturally. If he’d been fire, she’d been kindling. She fed his advances; she feasted on his advances. Revelled in the delights he dished her. That kiss had been simply obscene! Deliciously obscene. Instead of berating herself for enjoying it, she kept reliving it in her mind, each time imagining what would have happened had the butler not interrupted them.

  Probably something disgraceful. Disgracefully decadent.

  By now, she should have stopped thinking about it. But she sat weaving her laces while her memory wandered in circles.

  “Mon dieu! Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Madame exclaimed, eyeing the bit of lace Edwina had sewn on her long sleeves. In a triangular pattern, it surrounded her wrists before flaring up to her mid-forearms, the dark blue of the dress highlighting the white of the lace.

  “Oh this? I make lace.” Her modesty must have taken Madame aback because her mouth fell and her hand covered it.

  “Indeed, mademoiselle.” The middle-aged woman caught her wrists to examine the pieces. “It’s magnifique!” Her forefinger traced the intricate pattern. “Do you sell them?”

  A faint smile came to Edwina’s lips. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  Undoubtedly, Edwina had been familiar with the machine-made laces imported from the continent, which made its price a tad more affordable. But still too high due to transport and taxation costs. For generations, the women in her family had been making crochet lace using various types of thread. Personally, she preferred silk and made good work of it. Even if painstakingly slow in completing, the pieces she made achieved an affordable price if compared with the ones coming from the continent. The machine-made items, however, were plain and required further embroidery by hand. Hers, on the other hand, exhibited sophisticated patterns she learned from her mother and new ones she herself created. The result was attractive and refined.

  “Oh, mademoiselle, you must supply exclusively to me.” One hand flew to her temple, eyes wide, brows arched, she became the picture of drama.

  The modiste held a high place in London’s fashion circles as her clientele comprised the most prominent ladies of the ton.

  “I’m about to have luncheon,” Edwina said. “Would you care to join me for us to talk more about it?”

  The older woman’s face melted in elation. “Mais oui.”

  Edwina sent her assistants to have something to eat with the servants while she sat with madame in the small dining room.

  If both reached an agreement, Edwina stood to gain. An opportunity to cherish.

  An hour before dinner, Edwina decided to
call it a day at work. After changing, she left her room, heading for the library to do further reading on bookkeeping. Halfway down the stairs, she met the cad arriving from his office.

  Her legs froze on the step, her eyes burning on him. His black coat, waistcoat and trousers contrasted with the pristine shirt and neckcloth. The day’s stubble lined his square jaw that, together with his mussed hair, gave him the air of a warrior highlander materialised directly from Culloden.

  A wave of sensation thrummed throughout her skin; his mouth, nestled by the bristles, erupting those lamentable memories all over again.

  At the sight of her, he also halted. Even looking up at her, he dominated the place.

  His dark eyes narrowed, sweeping her from coiled hair to slippered toes. “Are you dressed for dinner?” Raspy, the question came imbued with that arrogant tone so like him.

  “Yes.”

  “Go change into one of your new dresses,” he instructed.

  Of course, Hobson would have informed his majesty of the day’s comings and goings.

  “No.” Why should she? Nobody was coming for dinner. It’d be just the both of them.

  His brows lifted and lowered in wicked intent. “You can do it yourself…” Those dark eyes caressed the region of her bodice. “Or I’ll be exceedingly glad to do it for you.”

  Blast the reprobate!

  Her eyes threw arrows at him. She didn’t doubt he’d do exactly that, should she defy his commands. Choosing the lesser evil, she rotated to go back up to her chambers. Moreover, he’d been very specific about her doing his bidding; it even stood in the contract.

  “Meet me in my study,” he said as if he invited her to smell the flowers in the garden.

  Despite her vexation, she nodded and breezed along the hallway in light paces instead of stomping her fury. She’d been raised to be a lady after all.