by Gill, Tamara
This. This was what it was like to be kissed by a man who knew how to do it right. Willow stood on tiptoes and kissed Lord Ryley back with as much enthusiasm and ability as she could remember from their last embrace.
He tasted of sweet tea and roguery, his wavy, dark locks in her fingers soft and supple in her hands. She dragged him down to her mouth, again and again, and she reveled in the feel of his tongue tangling with hers. Oh yes, this kiss was so much more than the one she had shared with Lord Perfect.
His had been closed-mouthed, stilted as if he was unsure if he could merely peck her lips or kiss her as Lord Ryley was now kissing her. Her back came up against the small partitioned wall between the windows, and he pinned her there. His hard, muscular chest teasing her nipples to hardened peaks. His large, strong hands slid down her back, eliciting a shiver down her spine before one hand clasped her bottom, pulling her hard against him.
Willow gasped, his straining manhood positioned at her aching core, and without thought, she moved against him. Sliding her sex against his, the annoyance of clothing, the muffled sensation making her impatient.
There were too many clothes between them. She wanted to feel him. To let him show her how it should be between a man and a woman. Between a husband and wife.
A moan rent the air, and she realized it was her as his hand slipped around her bottom to skim near the opening of her pantalettes. The burning need, the delicious ache between her thighs demanded soothing, to be stroked.
“You’re wet for me, Willow.” He kissed his way down her throat, taking little bites against her shoulder. “You know what that means, do you not?”
She shook her head, mumbling an incoherent answer that even she didn’t understand. Not that she understood much at the moment. This was all wrong. He was wrong for her, even if he did feel so very right at the moment. Lord Ryley, the Spanish Scoundrel, would never marry anyone she was sure, indeed, not her. She wasn’t connected enough, or wild enough for his lordship. From what she knew of him, of where he spent most of his time—In his gambling den—he lived hard and fast.
It was not what she wanted. She wanted to live, yes, but she wanted a family, a marriage of the truest sense. A life that would suit her. Lord Ryley did not suit at all.
She remembered his question. “No,” she managed, sucking in a breath as his fingers skimmed her opening.
“It means that you like my touch. I’d wager you did not get as hot and wet when that popinjay Lord Perfect kissed you.”
The reminder that she’d kissed two men in a matter of minutes slammed into Willow, and she shoved him away. He stumbled back, but where she thought to see smug understanding, she only saw a burning need in his eyes that matched hers. How could a man so unlike what she wanted make her feel so much that she would forget all propriety and damn it, Lord Herbert as well?
Willow took a calming breath, reaching up to check her hair and thankfully finding the pins in place. She couldn’t keep allowing such liberties. Nor could she keep wanting to have them. If she were serious about finding a husband, she could not be ruined by the most infamous rake in London.
“No more,” she said, holding up her hand when he went to step toward her. “We cannot keep doing this. Whatever this is,” she said, gesturing between them.
“You like my kisses and my touch. Why stop when you do not have to?” He watched her, and she could tell he was trying to figure out what to do. What to say. There was little he could do or say that could help this situation. She needed to return to London if only to get away from the man before her.
As much as she may wish it, deep down in her soul, she knew that he could not be changed. Men like Lord Ryley did not fall in love and be loyal to their wives. She was deluding her hopes to think otherwise. Lord Ryley had spent far too many years disillusioned by the ton and having too much fun snubbing his nose at their rules of propriety. His opinion on marriage wasn’t much better.
“I will not sleep with you, my lord.”
“Abe, please.”
She swallowed, having not thought he would give her leave to use his name. Not after denying him what he wanted.
Her.
A shiver raked her skin, and she rubbed her arms, chilled all of a sudden. “I cannot call you that.” Not that she didn’t wish to call him by his name, but it was too personal. Too intimate. Not as intimate as what they just partook in, but still, it was his given name.
“Yes you can. I want you to.” He reached out, taking her hand and idly playing with her fingers. “We do not have to sleep together for me to give you pleasure.” He flicked open the two pearl buttons at her wrist and slipped her glove free. Lifting her hand, he brought it to his mouth, kissing her palm. His hot kiss was similar to his kisses on her mouth, and she trembled, wondering what he would do after such a statement.
“So I’ll remain a virgin?” she breathed, biting her lip to stop herself from stepping against him and forgetting all her own rules and dreams and giving herself over to the Spanish Scoundrel.
He grinned knowingly, and she wished she knew what he was thinking. She was not going to give herself to this man. Not without a proposal of marriage, and that most definitely was not going to happen.
“Yes, and let me show you how.”
The pressure of his hold on her hand increased, and she knew he was a moment from pulling her against him again. Should he do so, she would not be able to resist. Not a second time. It had taken all her force of will to push him away when all she wanted was whatever he was willing to give her. No matter the consequences.
Willow wrenched her hand free, picked up her glove and left him staring at her, his eyes wide as she started down the picture gallery hall, determined to make her room without being ruined by a rake. Debauched in a window alcove by Marquess Ryley.
His chuckle followed her, and she strode faster. “See you back in London, Willow.”
She cringed, hating that the sound of her name on his lips was like an elixir that she wanted beyond anything else. Even a perfect, safe marriage with a man like Lord Herbert.
Chapter 12
The London season was in full swing by the time they arrived back in town. Willow attended the Duke of Carlisle’s ball, and every night since had attended one or another event. The opera, a night at Covent Garden, numerous balls and dinners. All of them pleasant, and all of them leaving her irritated and frustrated when they came to an end.
Stupid fool that she was, she’d thought when Lord Ryley had said he would see her in London that he’d seek her out. He had not. In fact, she’d not seen him at all.
Which was the sole reason she was now in a Hackney carriage and on her way to Hell’s Gate. Without the chaperonage of her friends, who were at an event with the Duchess of Whitstone.
If her friends found out she’d played them by feigning a headache to stay home, they would never forgive her. But she had to know. She had to see if Lord Ryley was back in London and quite settled in, not seeking her out. If that were the case, then she could continue on her path with Lord Herbert. It would prove to her beyond any doubt that his lordship was the gentleman for her and not some scoundrel who played with women and then left them to pick up their scattered hearts afterward.
Willow scoffed. What was she saying? She wasn’t heartbroken. Not at all. Lord Ryley had been a pleasurable experience, that was for certain, but that was all. She had not given her heart to him. A silly notion she would not entertain again.
She checked over her outfit, men’s breeches, knee-high boots. The waistcoat and superfine coat fitted her to perfection that she’d had her modiste sew up for her. She didn’t want him to recognize her tonight, and with a new wig of short-cropped black hair, Willow didn’t think he would.
Arriving at the club, she paid the driver to wait and went inside. The sound of music met her ears, and a small group of musicians were set up in one corner, playing while the gathered gentlemen gambled. Very few paid her attention, too caught up in their card games or the wome
n on their laps.
Willow strode about, looking for the one gentleman who’d occupied her mind far too much over the last few days. Why she couldn’t fathom. Lord Herbert had been attentive at all the balls and parties, and she was certain that in a matter of weeks, if not days, he would offer for her.
Not that she’d met his mother yet, but she felt sure to very soon, or so Lord Herbert said.
Standing at the foot of the stairs, Willow bowed to a woman who walked past, eyeing her in the fashion rakes glanced at the fairer sex. After being kissed by Lord Ryley, Willow understood what the woman walking by wanted from any gentleman willing to pay her fee.
Lord Ryley’s office was up on the second level, and she turned, climbing the stairs. If she found him here, then at least she would know what he was about. What had kept him from seeking her out about town.
A couple ran past her, giggling and fondling each other before disappearing into a room and closing the door with a decided slam. Willow edged her way along the passageway, making sure to look like she was taking an interest in the gaming below stairs.
She stopped where the door she believed led into Lord Ryley’s office was and leaned on the railing. The door was closed, and she frowned. She couldn’t open it and glance inside, he would surely know who she was if she did that, but she could wait and hope that he’d come out.
A sultry laugh caught her attention, and she glanced toward the staircase, spying the same woman that Lord Ryley deemed his mistress.
Her long, dark locks flowed about her back unbound. Her lips painted a deep, glossy red, and she oozed sensuality. Willow sucked in a breath as the woman ran a finger along a gentleman that she passed before winking at him. Her gown was transparent and left nothing to the imagination.
Willow turned, staring downstairs as Abe’s mistress knocked on the door behind her, before entering.
Thankfully she left the door open, and Willow shifted up the corridor a little to be out of sight, but within hearing.
“Darling, come downstairs and dance with me. It’s not every night that we have musicians playing.”
“Not tonight, Lottie.”
Willow bit her lip at the grave, distracted voice of Lord Ryley. She heard a pouty sigh from the woman. Her stomach curdled at the idea that a woman as beautiful, as sinful as the Spanish Scoundrel, was the woman who shared his bed.
Despair tore through her. With a mistress as seductive as that woman was, it wasn’t any wonder he’d not sought her out. She wasn’t as worldly, or as beautiful, and it was only stupidity on her behalf that a small part of her had hoped that he’d change for her. That he’d fall madly in love with her and leave all this debauchery behind.
Willow glanced over her shoulder and, through the door, spied a mirror across the room. It gave her a direct view of Lord Ryley seated at his desk. He was bent over a stack of papers, his hair askew as if he’d run his hand through it too many times. The woman glided about the room, her flowing red gown doing nothing to pull his lordship’s gaze.
A little part of her liked that he ignored the siren. At least she didn’t have to be privy to his ogling his lover.
“Ever since you returned to town, you’ve been a bore.” The woman rounded on him, coming to a halt before his desk. “Do you not want me anymore, Abe?” she purred, running a hand across the low cut of her dress. Lord Ryley. Abe…did look up then, a flicker of appreciation burning in his opaque orbs.
Willow blinked back the prick of tears at seeing him look at his lover with renewed interest. Damn him and his treatment of her. He was as bad as the ton termed him. Scoundrel fitted his character to a fault.
“You know I’m simply catching up on work, Lottie. No need to be jealous over what keeps you in the luxurious life you now live.”
The woman’s pout should be on the stage, not just for Lord Ryley’s eyes. His lover sauntered around the table, coming to sit on the desk before him, scattering his papers. Lord Ryley leaned back in his chair, watching her keenly.
“Perhaps you’d like to have a little repast, my lord?” she said, spreading her legs and sliding her wine-red gown up to pool at her waist.
Willow felt her mouth gape, and she fought to catch her breath. He grinned, wickedly, as the word bastard reverberated around in her mind. She had come here tonight to see if he was simply distracted, and distracted he most certainly was, among other things. Namely, his mistress.
The sniffing he did about Willow’s skirts in Hampton was merely amusement for him. She shook her head. She was a fool. Had been fooled. It was her fault. His reputation had preceded him, and she’d allowed his wicked kisses and ardent touch to sway her into allowing him liberties she should not have.
He would never change. His actions right now in his office with his mistress told her that, and she would not waste a moment longer wondering if he’d ever see the value in her, want to change for love. He didn’t love her. He’d loved no one but himself.
Willow turned and glanced down at the gamblers, many of whom she knew, most of them married or betrothed. There were few who didn’t have their mistresses with them. What was she doing here? This was not the life she wanted. No matter how much she may have enjoyed his lordship’s touch. She had allowed herself to be caught up in his seductive game, but never again. Lord Herbert was kind, yes, a little boring perhaps, but he would be true to her at least. With a marriage such as the one that loomed before her with his lordship, Willow believed love could bloom. If nurtured in time, it would grow and thrive.
Lord Ryley’s deep chuckle sounded in the room behind her, and she glanced through the door, not bothering to try to hide the fact she was watching them. His mistress was on his lap now, his arms loosely holding her about her waist.
Her feet would not move, no matter how much she didn’t want to see what she was witnessing. Lord Ryley glanced over his mistress’s shoulder and spied her. His smile slipped before he stood, causing his lover to fall on the floor before him.
“Willow,” he said, striding around the desk.
Willow fled down the hall, heedless of the fact that she was the only one running out of this cesspit of rakes and bastards all. The sound of his Cyprian’s protestations on being dumped on the floor floated to her ears. A small crow of pleasure ran through her that the woman had been dumped on her behind.
Not that any of this was the mistress’s fault. Willow allowing Lord Ryley liberties was all on her. She’d let him play her the fool, and now she would have to live with that consequence. Or at least her fickle, stupid heart would.
“Willow. Stop.”
She didn’t halt, her small frame making it easier for her to weave her way through the crowd. A few gentlemen took an interest, laughing and ribbing Lord Ryley at having not known his interest lay with the same sex.
Willow ignored them all. Her course to reach the carriage outside and to run headlong into a marriage with Lord Herbert her goal. She made the doors, throwing them open and running full pelt toward the carriage. She could hear Lord Ryley’s footsteps hard on her heels, but she wouldn’t stop. She had to make the carriage. Had to get away.
Strong, immovable arms wrapped about her waist and hauled her to a stop. The feel of his chest, hard up against her back, sent a frustrating thrill down her spine, and she kicked at his shins as best she could, trying to remove herself from his hold.
“Get your hands off me, you rutting bastard.” He stilled behind her and she did too. She’d never used such vulgar words before, but having said them aloud and to this very gentleman, in particular, was liberating. He deserved to be called out for what he was. How dare he play with her with so little regard? He knew she was innocent in the ways of men, and yet, still, he teased and taunted her with the possibility of more.
Even though she’d been a fool to silently hope, wonder if such a man could be changed by love. Lord Ryley was not that man.
“Tsk. Tsk. Tsk, my little hellcat. What has all your bristles upright?”
Willow wrenched f
ree, rounding on him. She started at his closeness and gritted her teeth at having to look up to meet his gaze. The heat she read there did odd things to her insides, and she narrowed her eyes, reminding herself as to why she’d fled from his gaming hell in the first place.
“You, Lord Ryley. You and the way you treat women.”
“Really?” he asked, crossing his arms, the action making her aware of his muscular frame and the fact he wasn’t wearing a coat, only a shirt. Her gaze flicked to his neck, noting that too was without a cravat. He was half-undressed, and the awareness wasn’t helpful.
“Yes. Really. You played with me in Hampton. Admit that you did. And now back in London, I’m to be tossed to the curb like all your past lovers.” Why was she saying such things? She didn’t care that he’d moved on. This was a good outcome for all of them. She was going to marry someone else, and all memory of the man before her would be eliminated from her mind.
The lie almost made her scoff aloud.
Damn him.
“We were never lovers, but seeing you in those breeches again, I can be persuaded to change my mind.”
She gasped, stepping back. “You’re a cad,” she growled. “I would not touch you, not after I just spied you fondling your mistress. She looked more than willing. Why don’t you go back upstairs and satisfy her, my lord? I’m not interested.” Willow turned on her heel, calling out the direction to the hackney cab driver who turned to face the road, no doubt well absorbed in their public argument as she was.
“Oh, no you don’t, Miss Perry,” he said, his voice deep and menacing. He followed her into the carriage, wrapping on the roof. The vehicle lurched forward and she glared at him. “What do you think you’re doing. Get out at once.”
He gestured toward the window. “We’re moving. It wouldn’t be safe, and anyway, we’re not finished.”
Willow laughed and hoped he heard the sarcasm in her gesture. “Oh no, we’re finished, my lord. Not that we ever started.” Which wasn’t entirely true, but still, if he hoped for more fondling, more kisses, he would be mistaken. She’d spit in his eye before she did that again.
