To Catch an Earl--A Bow Street Bachelors Novel

by Kate Bateman

Chapter 34.

  Emmy accepted a cup of tea with a murmur of thanks and added milk and sugar to the chipped cup, acutely aware that she was wearing only a bedspread and a thin cotton chemise. Never in her life had she imagined she would be taking tea with Alex Harland like this.

  A knock on the door saved her from further introspection. The scruffy young man who’d taken their horse in the courtyard positioned a small copper tub at the foot of the bed, then helped the maid pour several buckets of steaming water into it. The girl sent shy, flirtatious glances at Harland as she placed clean bath linens on the bed, but he ushered them out without acknowledging her.

  His mouth curled upwards as he surveyed the tub. It was clearly too small for him to sit in. “You can go first.”

  Emmy shook her head. Her throat closed at the thought of stripping naked in front of him. “No, I’m fine, really. I don’t want to bathe.”

  He chuckled. “You clearly haven’t looked in a mirror. You’re so splashed with mud, it’s hard to tell what’s freckle and what’s dirt.”

  He took one of the washcloths, dipped it in the steaming water, and wrung it out. Emmy’s heart began to pound as he stepped up in front of her, caught her chin, and started to wipe her face clean.

  She stilled, too stunned to do anything, as the warm cloth laved her cheeks, her temple, the sides of her nose. His eyes never met hers. He seemed engrossed in the task, as if he were her servant. It was a ridiculously erotic experience. The cotton was thin, and she could feel his fingers through the fabric as he wiped it across her lips. Blood pounded in her ears.

  “Close your eyes.” He passed the cloth gently over her closed eyelids and down the bridge of her nose.

  “If you rub harder, you might remove some of those cursed freckles,” she joked weakly.

  He stilled, then resumed stroking. “I like your freckles.” He applied slight pressure to her chin and tilted her jaw to expose the side of her neck.

  Emmy suppressed a shiver as the cloth slipped over the sensitive skin behind her ear and then slid down to her collarbone. She was so aware of him, of the faint warm disturbance in the air as he moved about her. Each tiny hair on her body prickled, and she almost groaned when he lifted the now-cool cloth from her skin and stepped back.

  “Better,” he said gruffly.

  He turned his back on her, and Emmy closed her eyes. Everything the man did seemed designed to lower her defenses, to turn her into mush. Staying near him all night was going to be torture.

  The low hum of conversation filtered up through the floor from the taproom below, mingling with the crackle of the fire in the grate.

  “Well, if you’re not going to use the water, I will,” he said.

  Emmy opened her eyes in shock. Before she knew what he was about, he reached his arms over his head, grasped his shirt between his shoulder blades, and pulled the material over his head. The maneuver revealed the tawny skin of his back and a pair of deliciously muscular shoulders.

  Her mouth went dry. He turned, utterly unself-conscious, and provided her with a front view that was even better than the back. The shirt bunched over his forearms and gathered at his wrists as he lifted each one and flicked the button to release the cuff. His biceps and forearms rippled in the candlelight, and her avid gaze roamed over the expanse of pectoral muscles and an abdomen as ridged and troughed as a furrowed field.

  Good lord, he really was magnificent. She’d known he was muscular, had felt him in the darkness at the Tricorn, but she hadn’t imagined how incredible he’d look in candlelight. His nipples, like small bronze disks, were hard and pebbled from the cold.

  He threw the shirt aside and picked up a fresh linen cloth, and she must have made a strangled noise, because he glanced over and lifted his brows in a questioning lilt.

  “What?” he said. “Don’t tell me you’re shy. Not after last night.”

  Her tongue felt like leather in her mouth, but she tried to think of something flippant and sophisticated to say. “I’ve never seen anyone remove a shirt in such a manner,” she managed.

  “Seen lots of men removing their shirts, have you?”

  She narrowed her eyes at his slightly sarcastic tone. “I haven’t seen any, as a matter of fact. Not even my brother.”

  A spark of amusement kindled in his expression. “You wear masculine clothes for your thieving.” He tilted his head in challenge. “How do you do it?”

  The blanket slipped from her shoulders as she stood. “Like this.” She crossed her arms in front of her at the waist and mimed lifting her chemise up and off, over her head, uncrossing her arms as she did so.

  He shrugged. “Women’s shoulders must be different. I’d dislocate something if I did it that way.” His lips twitched in a wicked smile. “In fact, I don’t believe it can be done. Show me.”

  Emmy laughed. “Oh no. I’m not falling for that. You’re just trying to get me naked.”

  His expression changed from playful to intent in a heartbeat.

  “I can’t deny it,” he said softly. “I meant what I said back in the woods. Last night was good, but I never got to see you. Never got to savor.”

  The huskiness of his voice robbed her of breath. Desire, swift and fierce, clenched her stomach.

  “I want you, Emmy Danvers. And I want to take my time.”

  How on earth was a woman supposed to resist that?

  He was still wearing his breeches. Emmy couldn’t prevent her gaze from dropping to the proud bulge that strained against the fabric. He wasn’t lying; he wanted her quite desperately.

  Sally had always told her that virginity was overrated. “Men make such a fuss over being the first,” she’d said blithely. “But think of how many times you’ll make love in your life. Hundreds, if you’re lucky. The first time’s always a trial because you don’t know what to expect. It’s like riding a horse. At the start, it’s more daunting than enjoyable. But with a little practice, and the right mount”—she’d giggled softly at that—“you’ll soon find it extremely pleasurable. If something feels good, make sure he keeps doing it. Don’t just lie there and expect him to read your mind. Tell him. Move him. Or move yourself into a better position.”

  Emmy’s face had been as red as a beetroot by that point, but Sally had chuckled bawdily. “Telling him what you like, what you want him to do, can be half the fun, believe me. Men love it when a girl does that.”

  Emmy had been a virgin last night, but she’d found the whole thing intensely pleasurable. Harland was clearly an accomplished lover, one who cared for the enjoyment of his partner. She couldn’t have wished for a better introduction to the sensual arts. The idea that there could be more than she’d already experienced was something she both doubted and prayed was true with equal fervor.

  She wanted to experience it all. Everything he had to give. Even if it was only for one night.

  Her heart pounding, she took a step toward him. “Yes.”

  He opened his arms and tugged her against him, trapping her in his embrace. She rested her cheek against his sternum. His heart beat, steady and sure, beneath her ear. Giving in to temptation, she opened her mouth and tasted him with an experimental flick of her tongue.

  He tightened his arms. “Emmy. You’re killing me.”

  His hand came up to her hair and she lifted her face, silently demanding a kiss. This was madness, weakness, stupidity. She didn’t care.

  He dipped his head and kissed her with slow deliberation. “You taste like honey,” he groaned. “And smell like heaven. God, you drive me mad.”

  They were nose to nose. Heat radiated from him, despite the chilly room. His hardness pressed insistently against her stomach.

  “I haven’t forgiven you for your British Museum taunt, you know,” he growled against her lips. “You naughty girl. You implied I was dense.”

  “And hard,” she added mischievously.

  He rocked against her. “Allow me to demonstrate just how hard I can be.”

  Wicked heat coiled through
her, burning her from the inside out. He drew her hand down between them and pressed himself into her palm. Her fingers tightened around him of their own volition, and he groaned, a deep rumble in his chest.

  “Is that hard enough for you, Emmy?”

  He slipped the edge of her chemise off her shoulder and kissed the skin he’d exposed. He teethed her lightly, a nip that sent shudders racing through her. She made a wordless sound of assent and tilted her head to give him better access, but he stepped away with a rueful shake of his head.

  “Wait. I need a bath. I’ve ridden all day. I’m filthy.”

  She opened her mouth to tell him she didn’t care; she wanted him exactly as he was, all sweaty and rain-slicked, but he sat on the edge of the bed and removed his stockings. She stared in fascination at his bare feet, at the hair that grew on his legs below the knee. He was so undeniably masculine.

  With a mocking, challenging glance he stood and slowly flicked open the fall of his breeches, as if daring her to tell him to stop.

  She didn’t.

  He caught the waistband with his thumbs and pushed the damp buckskin down over his narrow hips, and she caught her breath as he stepped out of them and tossed them carelessly onto the chair.

  Naked. He was wonderfully, gloriously naked.

  She’d caught a tantalizing glimpse of him that morning in his bedroom, but now she looked her fill. He was beautiful, a creature built for pleasure and sin. The candle glow flickered over him, and her gaze followed the intriguing line of hair that ran down from his navel to surround the part of him that reared up straight and proud between his legs.

  He didn’t seem embarrassed by his nakedness. He stepped into the tub, wet the cloth he’d used to clean her face, and washed his own face and the back of his neck.

  Emmy watched transfixed as he rubbed it briskly over his shoulders, arms and chest, sending rivulets streaming down his body. The water found the grooves between his ridged muscles, following the path of least resistance. She wanted to trace the same route with her tongue.

  She gave a sympathetic wince when she saw the long scar that bisected the muscle of his thigh. She’d nursed Luc’s terrible injury, so she knew just how long that must have taken to heal, how much it must have hurt. Her heart clenched for him.

  “Did you get that at the same time as you lost your vision?”

  He glanced down, as if he’d forgotten it was there. “Oh. No. That was courtesy of a French saber at Badajoz. It hurt like the devil.”

  Gathering her courage, Emmy stepped forward and took the washcloth from his hand. “Let me help. Turn around.”

  After an instant’s surprise, he turned and presented his back. She had to go up on tiptoes to reach his neck, then she slid the washcloth over his shoulders and down the twin ridges of muscle that bracketed his spine. He fisted his hands at his sides. His muscles twitched as she washed his ribs and the triangle of muscle that overlaid them, then swept the cloth down over the perfect globes of his backside.

  He sucked in a breath.

  She knelt beside the tub and trailed the cloth down the back of his thighs, over the back of his knees, fascinated by the way the hairs diverted the water in dark swirls. He shuddered like a fine, impatient stallion as she stroked his calves. A heady power filled her. He was giving her permission to explore. She could do whatever she liked.

  “Turn around,” she commanded softly.

  She was still on her knees, so when he complied, his rigid erection was right there in front of her. It bobbed as if it had a life of its own.

  “Touch me.” His voice was gravelly with need.

  Emmy felt light-headed. She’d heard about this from Sally, dreamed about it in the dark recesses of the night. Whatever happened after this, she would know the taste of him, the feel. She leaned forward.

  Chapter 35.

  Alex gripped the sides of Emmy’s head as his eyes rolled back in his skull. She pressed a tentative kiss to his tip, then swirled her tongue around as if she were licking the last traces of a Gunther’s ice from a spoon.

  His knees almost gave out. She was going to kill him; he was going to die of pleasure and he didn’t even care. Nothing had ever felt so good as her sweet, inexpert touch.

  After enduring her innocent explorations for as long as he could stand, he leaned down and pulled her to her feet. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

  “Enough of that,” he rasped, “or it’ll be over before it’s begun.”

  He stepped out of the tub, caught the hem of her chemise, and drew it over her head. Before she could protest at being naked, or become embarrassed, he maneuvered her onto the bed and followed her down, half lying over her. His breath caught in his chest at the incredible feel of her soft skin against his own, the fragrance of her in his nose. God. He braced himself on one elbow and gazed down at her, utterly enchanted.

  Beautiful.

  This was what he’d been missing last night: the sight of her alabaster skin, a glimpse of those perfect breasts and long legs. He’d felt her body, heard the breathy little sounds she’d made in the darkness, but he hadn’t seen. Now, he feasted his eyes.

  She was sleek and smooth; slight and intensely feminine. In the flickering candlelight, her nipples were dusky pink, tight buds in the cool air. The long hair spilling over the pillows matched the dark curls at the junction of her thighs, and his mouth went dry in anticipation. She was spread out beneath him like a banquet.

  He wanted to set upon her like a wild beast, to taste and to ravish, but there was no urgency this time. There would be no groping around in the darkness. He would see every nuance of her expression, watch every shiver and stroke. They could both take delight in discovery. His body hardened to the point of pain. God, he wanted her.

  Giving into temptation, he stroked down her side to her waist and spread his fingers wide, gauging the distance across her navel. He could probably encircle her waist with both hands if he tried.

  “You’re so small,” he murmured, almost to himself. “God, I’ll hurt you. Crush you.”

  Her chuckle brought his gaze back to her face, and she stroked his arm from shoulder to wrist with a light touch that made him want to arch like a cat.

  “And you’re so big,” she teased, wrinkling her nose. “The terrifying Alexander Harland of Bow Street, known to show no mercy.”

  He mock scowled at her, but she met his eyes, and he felt himself being sucked down into their depths.

  “You won’t hurt me,” she whispered confidently. “You didn’t last night, did you? I’m stronger than I look, Harland. I can take whatever you give.”

  She slid her hand to his nape and pulled him down for a kiss, and Alex groaned into her mouth. With a giggle of delight at how much she obviously affected him, she kissed her way down his chin, his neck, then across his collarbone. When she reached his shoulder, she bit him lightly, a string of teasing nips, then flicked him again with her tongue. It was heavenly torment.

  Alex leaned back and threaded his fingers through hers, noting with a kind of detached despair how much larger his own hands were. Her fingers were so delicate, her nails neat ovals. His hands looked like bear paws in comparison. How could such a tiny thing have caused him so much trouble? She was mischief and lawlessness in a tiny, irresistible package.

  He brought her finger to his mouth and enjoyed the way her eyes widened as he sucked it between his lips. He released her hand and cupped her breast, savoring the sweet, slight weight of it, and watched as she bit her lower lip in an unconsciously provocative gesture. He’d never felt this desperate for a woman before in his life. Hell, he was no better than a randy schoolboy. The scent of her skin coiled in his head and the only thought he could manage was: I have to taste her.

  It didn’t matter that they were on opposite sides of the law. What mattered was that they were on the same side of this bed.

  He planted a trail of kisses down the center of her body.

  Roses and peonies. Madness and
sin.

  She arched as he took her nipple into his mouth and sucked hard, but he didn’t allow himself to dwell too long. He kissed lower, shifting down her body, and she tensed as he swirled his tongue into her belly button then kissed lower still. He wedged his shoulders between her thighs, spreading her open to his gaze, and she instinctively covered herself with her hands.

  “Wait—!” she gasped. “What—?”

  “We didn’t get to this last time,” he said, gazing up her body. Her cheeks were pink with embarrassment, and he sent her a teasing, confident smile. “Trust me, Emmy. You’ll like it. I promise.”

  * * *

  Emmy lay back against the sheets as Harland placed a soft kiss on the inside of her thigh. She trusted him completely. If he said she would enjoy it, who was she to argue? He clearly had the greater experience. Even so, she squirmed as his hot breath laved her feminine core.

  He chuckled and lifted one brow in amused inquiry. “May I?”

  She managed a dazed nod and gave an incoherent groan of pleasure when his tongue swept over her sensitive flesh. His eyes were closed, his lashes lowered as if he were tasting something infinitely sweet, to be savored.

  He licked her again, a lazy swirl, and she shuddered. It was different to the touch of his fingers, but equally maddening. Sensation flickered hot and cold over her skin, little tongues of ice and flame. She arced off the bed, grabbing hold of his hair as pleasure swelled, a throbbing ache that built like a wall of water pressing against a dam.

  She reveled in his strength, his skill. He had such mastery over her body, and yet it didn’t feel like restraint. It felt like freedom. Like soaring, infinite power. Emmy dug her heels into the bed as he worshipped her with his mouth. No mercy—only surrender. She’d never expected anything else from him.

  She climbed higher and higher, teetering on the edge of the abyss, desperate to take the leap into soaring oblivion.

  L’appel du vide.

  She so wanted to jump.

  “Harland. Oh. God. Pleeease.”