He stepped away, disengaging from her before he fastened a button on his trousers, then to her surprise he caught her up in his arms.
Liam carried her up the stairs to his bedroom. The way she curled her arms around his neck and rested her cheek against his chest drove the final stake into his heart. He was mad for this woman. It was like she’d been made for him. His last resistance, his last doubt, had disintegrated when she took off her cloak to reveal a transparent nightdress that would have incited riots. Her breasts, so pert and perfect; her soft belly and round hips; the dark curls at the apex of her thighs. And her long silky hair, falling over his arm. She might only want him for what he could give her in bed, but he could build on that until she agreed with him: they were meant for each other.
He set her down on the thick carpet in front of the fireplace and stripped off his clothes. Her nightdress was barely clothing at all, so he left it on for the moment. Bathsheba watched him, her gaze fascinated but somehow vulnerable.
“No questions tonight?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. Whatever you want to teach me, I want to learn. Your way has been better than anything I could have asked for.”
His heart jumped. That was promising. “I am glad it met your hopes.”
Something flickered in her eyes. “You must know it has surpassed every one of my hopes.”
Do you know it has only raised mine? He didn’t say it, not yet. He wanted to give her one last lesson in pleasure before he broached the topic that had bedeviled him all week. If she didn’t like his proposal, at least he would have this night with her.
“Come here.” He reached for her hand, then tugged her closer. He folded his arms around her, her back to his chest, and took a long inhale with his face against her lavender-scented hair. When he prepared the room, before he’d been fully confident she would arrive, he had lit a pair of lamps. Now he wished he’d lit every lamp in the house and placed them all in this room so he could see every fleeting expression that dashed across her face, every inch of her body as he made her his. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “For what happened downstairs.”
She stiffened. “There is no need—”
“You dropped the cloak and blew apart my plans.” He slid one finger under the strap of her wispy-thin nightdress and eased it down her shoulder. “This is bewitching.”
The tension melted from her shoulders. “Do you like it? Better than my brown velvet or green cotton?”
“Much better.” He applied his mouth to the slope of her bare shoulder, letting his finger drift down to her breast. The gauzy cloth did nothing to obscure how rosy and pert her nipple was. “You should patronize that modiste for your entire wardrobe.”
“Oh my.” Her laugh was shaky and more like a sigh of pleasure as his palm cupped her breast, his thumb teasing the peak. “I could never afford Madame Follette’s for everything . . .”
“It would be worth it.” He slipped the other strap down and undid the ribbon holding the bodice closed. Another tug and the ribbon that ran beneath her breasts came loose, letting the garment slide down her body to puddle around her feet.
He urged her down onto her knees, then onto hands and knees. Her head fell forward as he ran his palms over her back, smoothing over the firm plumpness of her hips. This time he lingered over her, testing and teasing in search of every sensitive spot on her body. He wanted to know every inch of her and discover every little thing that made her sigh. This was Bathsheba, who never hesitated to tell him exactly what she thought, whose mind worked the same way his did, and whose passions ran as hot as his.
And now she was in his bedroom, his conquest, his conqueror, his equal.
Liam didn’t believe in luck; luck was the word lazy people used when hard effort and preparation finally paid off. It hadn’t been luck that saved the Intelligencer when he almost went bankrupt, it was a wise choice of investors—namely Arthur Wilde, who left his twelve percent share to his widow Madeline. It hadn’t been luck that made his subscriptions grow after Madeline began writing a gossip column for the newspaper, it was the deliberate cultivation of mystery around the anonymous but highborn columnist who reported the most scandalous, choicest gossip in London. It wasn’t luck that made his side business printing novels and poetry enormously profitable, it was a clear-eyed evaluation of the demand for the sort of books that Bathsheba wrote.
But he didn’t have a good explanation for this. What had made Bathsheba bring her proposition to him? For all that he’d been shocked by it, he’d known from the start that he didn’t want her turning to someone else: don’t you dare, he’d said when she suggested it. He could tell himself he was concerned for her safety and her reputation, but there was more; he didn’t want her to be like this with someone else. Until that moment she had kept their relationship cordial and professional, and he had been satisfied with that—but the moment the prospect of more was dangled in front of him, Liam snatched it. Had he wanted her all along? Or had he been blind? He didn’t know. But now that he did see quite clearly, he didn’t want it to end.
Even though he knew what she liked already, he took his time, making her writhe and arch beneath his hands and mouth. He turned her over onto the floor and she spread herself before him like a feast, inviting him to gorge himself on her pale skin and pink nipples and silky curls. Her dark eyes glowed with desire and he realized she was lovely—not as most in London thought of beauty, but the way he did. Her intelligence had won his respect, her talent won his admiration. Her dry humor made him laugh. Perhaps he shouldn’t feel any astonishment that he was falling in love; rather, he should wonder why he hadn’t fallen sooner.
If Bathsheba had thought lessons one and two were satisfying, she was rapidly realizing that Liam hadn’t shown her everything, not by half. This night, knowing they had hours, he seemed bent on destroying whatever resistance her heart had left. His hands began so gently, roving over her body as if smoothing the way for his mouth. But the hard, rapid coupling against the wall downstairs had been so erotic, so needy, her body was already humming with anticipation. “Harder,” she whispered to him, and he responded. “Faster,” she moaned to him, and he complied. Take me, she begged silently as he pulled her toward ecstasy. I’m yours if only you can love me.
She was crying, shaking, on the verge of eruption, when he pulled away from her. Roughly he spread her knees wide, and thrust home. Instinctively her body tightened around him, and his face grew fierce. Deliberately he hiked her knees up, until she curled her legs around his waist, and then he planted one hand behind each of her shoulders. His first thrust made her clutch at his arms. The second made her back arch; he angled his hips so that every invasion raked across the most sensitive nerve endings in her body. At the first rush of climax she bit back a scream and squeezed her eyes shut, her breath catching in anticipation.
“No,” he rasped. “Look at me.” His gray gaze bored into her, pupils dilated. His hair swung around his face as he moved.
Bathsheba started to shake. She was coming, her climax boiling up inside her, from her toes through her thighs through her belly until it seemed to seize her lungs. Her eyes widened as it broke; Liam’s blazing gaze had mesmerized her until she couldn’t blink or look away.
“Yes,” he growled, pumping hard. “Yes—like that—” He ducked his head and kissed her as he drove himself so deep inside her, Bathsheba thought it might tear her apart. But then his tongue was in her mouth, and she strained against him, kissing him back, her trembling arms around his neck as he reached his own release. When he finally lifted his head, she gasped for air, feeling as if she hadn’t taken a breath in minutes.
“You . . . you never kissed me before,” she said faintly, her heart still racing.
“My mistake,” he whispered, brushing his lips against hers before settling in for another long, deep kiss that scattered what little sense she had left.
He helped her off the floor eventually and carried her to bed, tucking her snugly against him. Bat
hsheba sank into the fine linens and indulged in a moment of fantasy. I never imagined these lessons in seduction would take such a turn, he said in her imagination. Bathsheba, I don’t want this to end . . . I love you . . . No matter how frequently and firmly she had told herself that Liam was only taking what she offered, that men could enjoy a vigorous romp in bed . . . or on a sofa or on a chaise . . . and not develop any finer feelings for the woman involved, her wayward heart persisted in trying to spin straw into gold.
He lingered over her pleasure, saying he wanted to learn her and let her learn him.
He canceled a dinner engagement to be with her.
He wanted her to stay all night.
He kissed her.
“You were right,” she murmured.
“Oh?” He sounded amused. “How noble of you to admit it.”
“Of course I would admit it,” she protested, then added tartly, “once you proved your point, naturally.”
He laughed, a low relaxed sound. His fingers were combing idly through her hair, and she could have sighed aloud at how like a lover it was. “Which point?”
She hesitated. Her cheek was against his shoulder, his arm beneath her head. “Your way was superior.”
His fingers slowed, then resumed stroking her hair. “I’m delighted you agreed to try it.”
How could she not? Bathsheba felt the end of their interlude approaching; this would likely be the last night. Her fingers curled into a fist against his bare chest, where she could feel the steady thump of his heart, still rapid after their lovemaking.
But it didn’t beat for her.
“Why did you want me to stay?” she asked to divert her mind from that. It would spoil the whole night, this lone magical night she had with him.
His fingers paused. “Because,” he finally said, very slowly, “seduction is more than the physical act, whether that act be ‘brisk and efficient’ or leisurely and thorough. I felt you deserved the full range.”
“Then, there will be more tonight?” She honestly didn’t know what else he could mean to teach her. Her limbs already were like jelly and she felt the most blissful exhaustion of her life.
Liam was quiet for a long moment. He tipped up her chin until she met his gaze. She had never seen that expression in his eyes before—searching, almost wary, and full of urgency. “Do you not want more?”
Her face burned. She did—she wanted so much more, the words themselves were too big to speak. For a moment the question seemed to burn in the air, the fulcrum on which her life might turn. She had admired Liam—wanted Liam—from the start, but now she’d gone and fallen hopelessly in love with him. If she told him . . .
“I planned on an entire night,” he added. “The carriage won’t return for you until morning.”
She blushed, relieved that he’d spoken before she could blurt out her adoration. He referred only to tonight—that answer was easier. “Yes.”
Chapter 10
She woke in the night, disoriented and cold. For a moment Bathsheba lay still in alarmed confusion; the blankets had fallen off, but why was she naked? She groped for the covers and encountered Liam’s bare chest.
She went still, her fingers still brushing his skin. He was warm and firm and so male. Her ideal male. She had expected a night of lovemaking, but he’d given her more: not just physical pleasure but emotional pleasure as well. Bathsheba didn’t have many close friends. The trials of daily life, coupled with the swings in her fortunes, had left little time for friends. At times she wondered if she even knew how to let down her guard with others. It was strange, then, how she felt so at ease with Liam.
Bathsheba laid her hand against his chest and felt the steady thump of his heart. His heart might not be hers, but she had learned to take what life offered her. And if this interlude with Liam was all she got, she would save up every moment in her memory.
He stirred at her touch. “Too early,” he muttered, reaching for her. Bathsheba let him draw her close and tug the blankets over both of them.
“It’s almost dawn,” she whispered.
His lips brushed the back of her neck. “Almost doesn’t count.”
She smiled. “It’s a long drive back to London. I dare not linger.”
“You’ll be home before the street lamps are put out, even if you lie here another hour.”
“Is that so?” He growled a sleepy affirmation. Outside the window a thrush called, the sound sweet and clear in the night. One didn’t hear that in Totman Street. “Why do you live so far from town?” she asked on impulse.
He shifted, settling her more comfortably against him. His voice was a drowsy rumble, but he answered readily. “It’s quiet here. My father told me land was the best investment. And if I lived in London my mother would come to call on me all the time, which would be untenable. All in all, it’s perfect.”
“You bought this house to avoid your mother?”
He grunted. “Of course not. I dine with her every Sunday, discuss the latest gossip, endure my brother’s company—and then I leave. If she came to call at my home, manners would prevent me from leaving.”
Bathsheba’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “I don’t believe you!”
“No?” He kissed her neck. “Perhaps you’re right. My manners aren’t fine enough to keep me from leaving. But my mother is persistent; odds are she would follow, even if I claimed the Intelligencer was burning to the ground at that moment. I would know no peace.”
He dined with his mother every Sunday. Bathsheba’s mother had died nearly ten years ago. A wistful smile curved her lips, and she was glad he couldn’t see it. “So you fled.”
“For my own preservation,” he agreed. “It took me twenty years to realize it, but my mother always gets her way. She looks harmless and sweet, but she’s relentless. Kings would quail before her. My brother and I had no chance, but, being by far the cleverer of us, I escaped to St. John’s Wood.”
Her smile faded. “Danny used to say I was relentless,” she said in a low voice. “When he came home from the war.”
“I expect if you were, it was for his own good.”
“It was,” she agreed. “He needed it. But I felt like an awful scold.” She half turned her head. “I had to be, to save us both from being cast on the parish or thrown into the Fleet.”
“And you did, so you have nothing to regret.”
“Perhaps.” She hesitated. “I worried over what my parents would think. My mother would have wanted me to marry Henry the grocer, no matter how cold the marriage would have been. He’s a good man, you know, and it would have provided security.”
His arms tightened around her. “Rubbish. She would have wanted you to sell yourself into marital servitude? Even if she did, you had every right to reject that for yourself.”
“You think so?”
“Of course,” he said, sounding mildly surprised. “Why shouldn’t you? It is your life; it was your decision. If I’d followed what my father wanted me to do, I would be adding up columns in the bank office, with my brain withered away to nothing.”
Her eyes widened. “A banker?”
“Noxious, isn’t it?” His laugh rumbled deep in his chest. “I fled from the prospect as if the hangman were after me. But I do confess, if the Intelligencer hadn’t trafficked in so much gossip—my mother’s fascination—I’m sure she would have badgered me to follow his example. So in a way, I fended off both of them.”
She turned over and went up on her elbows to look down at him. The steel gray of dawn gave just enough light for her to make out his features, relaxed and so handsome, it made her chest hurt. “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true.” He gave a lazy grin. “How dare you impugn my honesty.”
“No!” She laughed and shook her head. “I don’t believe you were ever terrified or intimidated by your mother. You’re impervious. You do exactly as you wish, and don’t care a fig for anyone’s opinion of you.”
“You think not?” His grin lingered
, but his gaze was more thoughtful. “Everyone cares for someone else’s opinion—even if only one person’s. No one is impervious.”
“You give every appearance of it,” she told him.
“Well.” He pulled her against him. “Let me disabuse you of that notion.” He rolled over her, nuzzling her neck until she laughed, and then there was no more conversation.
He walked her to the carriage an hour later. It was early, the sky pale gold and the ground dewy. The roses were in bloom, and in the brief moment when Liam turned to hand her valise to the coachman, Bathsheba thought it was the most perfect day of all time. On impulse, she flung her arms around Liam’s neck when he turned back to her.
“Thank you,” she breathed.
He caught her, his hands on her back. “For what, specifically?”
She kissed him. “For everything,” she said softly. “It was all I hoped for and more.” Bathsheba gave a tremulous smile. “You fulfilled our bargain perfectly,” she said, reminding herself that this was important to clarify.
“Our bargain,” he echoed, suddenly serious. “Bathsheba, that bargain—”
A shout made them both start. A horse was trotting down the lane toward them, a gentleman in tweed on his back. Liam swore under his breath as Bathsheba froze. Her heart kicked painfully hard; she didn’t want anyone to see her leaving Liam’s house at dawn, no doubt looking as though she’d spent the night in debauched pleasure.
“Damn it,” said Liam under his breath. He yanked open the carriage door. “You’d better go.”
She yanked up the hood of her cloak. “Yes.” She was already jumping in, keeping her head down. “Good-bye.”
He didn’t even reply, merely closed the carriage door and barked at the coachman to drive. Bathsheba huddled well away from the window, keeping her face hidden. The rider openly stared as the carriage passed him, but she turned away, holding her breath until the carriage was well past him.
When a Rogue Falls Page 8
