To Hunt the Hunter (Girls Who Dare Book 11)

by Emma V. Leech

  “What’s the trouble, darling girl? Won’t you tell me?”

  She opened her eyes and glared at him reproachfully.

  “You know what the trouble is,” she accused him.

  “I do?”

  He tried to look innocent and failed by a mile. He looked like a fallen angel. He had the body and face of an angel, at any rate, but devilry burned in his eyes.

  “Yes. Yes, you do! Oh, Lucian, please,” she begged him, writhing beneath his touch as his hands continued to caress her breasts, teasing the hard peaks that were sending shock waves of sensation rolling through her when he so much as brushed against them now.

  “I’ll do anything you want, Matilda. Only ask it of me. Command me.”

  “Touch me,” she demanded, beyond being embarrassed now. “Touch me like you did before, in your bed.”

  “You mean here?” he asked, shifting back a little and trailing a lazy finger through the curls between her legs.

  “Yes. Yes.” Matilda nodded, wanton and eager.

  “Like this?” Slowly, so, so slowly, he teased a fingertip along the seam of her sex.

  Matilda gasped, spreading her legs as far as she could between the cage of his thighs, silently demanding more.

  “Do you remember the dinner at Mrs Manning’s?” he asked, tormenting her with barely there touches designed to send her wild with frustration.

  “What?” Matilda snapped, bewildered by the question as her patience frayed. He wanted to make conversation now? “The one where you pretended I’d agreed to go to Green Park with you, when I’d done nothing of the sort?”

  “That’s the one,” he murmured, still trailing his finger too lightly over her sex, just enough to make her tremble and quiver beneath his touch. “The one where I touched your hand and you fell to pieces.”

  “Oh, you devil!” she cried, laughing yet half mad with exasperation. “Yes! Yes, I remember.”

  “Do you know what I was thinking then?”

  “No.” Matilda closed her eyes and prayed for endurance.

  Her body was nothing but nerve endings, every one of them standing on end, oversensitive and on edge with anticipation, her focus entirely concentrated on the too gentle brush of his finger between her thighs.

  “I was thinking of you, like this, with your beautiful body open to me. I was quite desperate. All I could think of was tasting you. I wanted my mouth on you so badly I could not have stood up without everyone in the room knowing just what you’d done to me. It was excruciating.”

  Matilda’s eyes flicked open and she stared up at him in astonishment.

  “You were as cold as ice,” she accused him. “You didn’t so much as bat an eyelid.”

  His lips quirked. “Appearances can be deceptive, my love. I was never more out of control in my life. I only thanked God there were a great many courses so I could govern my unruly libido in time.”

  Matilda stared at him disbelievingly. “You wanted…?”

  “To taste you.” His eyes glittered with desire. “Here.”

  He illustrated his meaning by sliding his finger in between the delicate folds to the slick heat beneath, and Matilda exclaimed, her hips jerking as pleasure jolted through her.

  “There?” she demanded, raising her head to stare at him, once she had wit enough to speak again. “You mean you were thinking about your mouth… there?”

  “Yes,” he agreed, a wicked smile tugging at his lips and giving her a tantalising glimpse of those elusive dimples. “I was suffering a world of discomfort for it, too.”

  “Oh good Lord,” she said, as her head flopped back to the mattress.

  “I have wanted it very badly, Matilda, and for such a long time. May I? Please?”

  Matilda nodded weakly. A small part of her wanted to ask if that was normal, in the circumstances, but a much larger part of her didn’t give a tinker’s cuss if it was or not.

  She was vaguely aware of Lucian moving off the bed, of him kneeling between her legs. He tugged her towards the edge of the mattress, spreading her wider until she felt exposed and vulnerable and then… and then she didn’t care about anything else. She cried out as his mouth covered her, hot and wet and sinful, and her body convulsed at once, heat and pleasure surging through her in a heady wave as she arched and trembled beneath him. The climax left her breathless and gasping.

  He laughed, blowing a fluttering stream of air over her until she shivered. His hot breath felt like a cool breeze against her burning flesh, and he nuzzled the delicate skin at the apex of her thighs.

  “So sweet, my beautiful Matilda. Sweeter than honey. I knew you would be, and I think you can do that again.”

  He set out to prove it until Matilda was nothing more than sensation and quivering flesh. Her world had narrowed and constricted to the place where his mouth and tongue kissed and lapped and tormented, over and over again. Just as she thought he could not possibly wring another ounce of pleasure from her trembling body, he would start again until she was helpless and moaning, abandoned to his touch, shamelessly crying out his name and begging for more.

  When at last he stopped, pressing a tender kiss to her thigh, she was too dazed to even notice for a moment. She was giddy and muddled, uncertain of anything besides the gentle buzz of pleasure simmering through her veins still. Movement in the room made her eyes open, though, and she focused hazily until she realised that Lucian had finally divested himself of his boots, and everything else.

  Her breath caught and suddenly she was perfectly wide awake.

  He climbed onto the bed on the far side of her and lounged back against the pillows, his silver grey eyes glinting. He’d crooked his good arm behind his head and looked quite at ease, if you did not notice the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Matilda scrambled up and turned around to see him, pushing her hair out of her face. Greedily she drank him in, the long, elegant limbs and the taut, sculpted muscle all gilded perfection in the lamplight. The warm glow shimmered over him, casting him in gold.

  “For God’s sake, touch me,” he said, betraying his insouciant posture as his voice rasped with impatience.

  “With pleasure,” Matilda replied, daring to move closer.

  She knelt beside him and laid her hand on his ankle, drawing her palm up over his leg, feeling the rasp of hair as she moved higher, sliding over his knee, over his thigh. Her attention snagged on the most masculine part of him and could not be diverted. He was everywhere in proportion, beautifully wrought, and Matilda felt her breath catch.

  His member twitched under her hot gaze, and Matilda smiled. It seemed to beckon her, to beg for her notice. Remembering how wickedly he’d tormented her, she decided she could take her time. He wasn’t going anywhere. So, she traced a fingertip along the surprisingly delicate skin where his thigh met his torso, and then trailed it back down again. She tangled her fingers in the coarse hair at the base of his shaft and tugged at it gently before tracing a pattern over his belly. His stomach muscles twitched and leapt beneath her touch, and she grinned.

  “Matilda,” he said.

  Her name was a harsh rasp of sound, a plea, and she looked up to find his heavy-lidded eyes dark with wanting. She held his gaze and bent her head to press a kiss to his belly.

  He groaned and closed his eyes.

  “Wicked girl.”

  She smiled against his skin and dared to trail her tongue around his belly button, as it seemed silly not to. Shivers cascaded over his body and she felt a surge of satisfaction that her instincts had been correct. What now, though? She wanted to touch him, to see if the smooth skin of his sex was as silky as it looked, but she felt suddenly uncertain. He had asked first, after all.

  “What should I do?”

  His eyes flickered open, hot and gleaming like quicksilver.

  “Whatever you want,” he said urgently. “Only for the love of God, put your hands on me, or your mouth. I don’t care. Just touch me, please.”

  Her mouth? Goodness.

  Deciding she was not
quite brave enough for that yet, she reached out her hand instead. He was burning hot beneath her touch and impossibly hard, though his skin was so fine it slid like the most delicate of silk. He hissed out a breath as her fingers trailed over him and she snatched them away in shock, wondering if she’d done something wrong.

  “Don’t stop,” he gritted out, sounding just as impatient and fractious as she’d been earlier.

  She looked up to discover he’d flung his arm over his eyes. Tension radiated from him, his muscles taut and defined as he held himself still.

  Matilda returned to her exploration, stroking the burning shaft gently, inexpertly touching and caressing.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted cheerfully, gaining a choked laugh in response.

  “I know,” he said, the words ragged and breathless. “Doesn’t seem to matter. Oh, God….”

  He groaned, his hips canting upwards, seeking more.

  “Harder,” he commanded. “Like this.”

  Lucian reached down, curling her fingers about him, guiding her movements.

  She did as he instructed, pleased with the results as his breathing sped. He cursed and sat up, watching her now, his silver eyes burning. Moisture glistened at the rosy head, making her hand slick, the slide and caress easier and faster.

  “Damn it, that’s…, Oh, hell, I… I can’t….” he muttered, and suddenly Matilda was flat on her back.

  Lucian settled between her legs and, for one heady moment, she believed he would make love to her properly, make her his in the one, irrevocable way she longed for. He did not, but instead slid his erection over her sex in a slow, sinuous movement. Matilda gasped at the intimacy of it, her own arousal surging back to life in an instant. She turned her face into his neck, nuzzling his skin, feeling his pulse as something wild and trapped as it beat frantically beneath her lips. It reached a crescendo and his body grew taut.

  “Oh, Christ.”

  He groaned, his breath hot as he moved over her, his shaft caressing her and making her gasp and writhe beneath him. She brought her legs up, cradling him between her thighs and he made a harsh sound, his body spasming. The hot splash of his seed was a shock as it spilled upon her belly. She closed her eyes against the sting of regret, knowing he was protecting her.

  In this moment, she did not want the care he took. She would have given anything to have taken him inside her, to have taken his seed within her and have kept his child with her as she could not keep him. She blinked, willing the tears not to fall, but she could not hold them back this time and they scalded her eyes, impossible to halt.

  “Matilda,” he said, his voice anguished. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. My love, I’m so sorry. I ought never—”

  “Don’t,” she said fiercely, holding onto him when he would have left her, would have wrapped himself in guilt and regret and loathed himself for what he had done. “I am only weeping because I am greedy for more, not for anything you have done. Don’t make it worse by feeling guilty for giving me as much as you could.”

  “It is not enough,” he said, his voice angry. “Not good enough. I bring you shame where there ought only to be joy.”

  “I am not ashamed,” she said, wanting to shake him. “There is no shame in loving you. I have had practise enough at living with others’ opinions of me. They are their opinions, not my own. It is my own voice I heed now, and I see nothing wrong in what we have done, and I won’t have you feel guilt for it. I won’t bear the burden of your guilt either, Lucian, so stop it, now.”

  She could not stop him leaving the bed though. He kissed her forehead and pulled out of her embrace. Matilda watched as he poured water from the pitcher on the washstand into the bowl and turned away from her, cleaning himself up. Reaching for a clean cloth, he returned to the bed and tenderly wiped her clean too, removing all trace of himself from her body.

  “Come back to bed, Lucian,” she urged him, sliding under the bedcovers. She was cold now, missing the heat of his body and needing him to return to her.

  He did not reply, keeping his back to her, taking the time to rinse out the used cloths and set them aside. He leaned upon the washstand, his head bowed, shoulders set.

  “Lucian.”

  He took a deep breath and turned, returning to the bed. He did not look at her, but got in and put his arm about her as she snuggled into his side.

  “Don’t be cross,” she said, an anxious, panicked sensation growing in her chest.

  “I’m not cross.”

  “Well, don’t be whatever you are,” she retorted. “Don’t spoil it.”

  He sighed and reached out, pinching out the candle on the nightstand before sliding down the bed. He pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

  “Go to sleep, my love. We have another long day tomorrow.”

  “I don’t want to sleep,” she protested, though in truth she could hardly keep her eyes open. He was so warm, and the bed was comfortable, and it had been a long and tiring day.

  “Yes, you do,” he said, his hand stroking up and down her spine, soothing her as he might a fractious child.

  “But I don’t want to miss you.”

  It was a faint, whiny complaint, and his reply was soft and amused.

  “Dream of me, then,” he said. “As I shall dream of you.”

  ***

  Lucian did not dream of Matilda, for he did not sleep, but she filled his thoughts all the same. He closed his eyes, forcing the pain in his throbbing shoulder from his mind and instead reliving the past hours, marvelling at how easily she had stripped him of control. It had been the hardest thing to deny himself, to not breach that fragile barrier and make her his own. Even now, his soul howled with the pain of denial, not just because he had wanted her physically beyond anything he’d ever known, but because he hungered to be close to her, to show her how it could be between them. Instead, she had shown him. Her touch had been sweet and loving, and clumsy with inexperience, and he’d been utterly disarmed. No skilled lover had ever wrung such a response from him with such startling speed, and her touch seemed to have scoured his mind of the past. It was as though no one had ever come before her, for nothing else had ever meant so much.

  Everything.

  It had been everything, and not nearly enough. He’d been too aware of the fragility of the moment, of the sense that he must hold tight and remember every single exquisite second and never let it go, and then she had cried and he’d wanted to weep too at the raw feeling in his chest, at the weight of guilt, at the unfairness of it.

  He had always known that physical pleasure and love were separate things, but he had not appreciated the power of the two combined. How could he bear it? How could he bear not having this again, forever? He calculated the time it would take to get to Matlock Bath, and return, and the handful of days and nights mocked him when set against the eternity of days and nights that would come after. He sought the ice he always reached for, the comforting weight of duty and honour. These things he had clung to all these years. They had given him purpose and the will to survive, at least until Thomas had died… and then he had discovered the existence of his little niece.

  Phoebe had given him a new purpose, alongside a growing fear: the fear of failing her as he had her father. But Phoebe would grow, and she would marry and leave him alone, leave him with his duty and his honour to support him. With Matilda warm against his body, the tantalising feminine scent of her filling his head, duty and honour seemed diminished, their substance changed, made frail and brittle from exposure to the powerful light of her love. He feared they would no longer sustain him once she was gone, that they would not be strong enough to make him endure.

  No. That could not be. If he did not have his duty to his family, his name, his honour, he would not survive the future. So, he resurrected the ice, forcing his feelings down, burying them deep in the frozen tundra of his soul, but they burned inside him, hot and resentful, melting his resolve.

  Chapter 16

  Co
me at once! Matilda is in trouble and we must help her.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Lady Helena Knight, copied to each of the Peculiar Ladies.

  6th May 1815. Midnight. A meeting of the Peculiar Ladies. Beverwyck, London.

  “What the devil is this about?” Nate demanded of Helena as he thrust his hat and coat at Jenkins, the butler. “What on earth did you mean by sending such a missive? Poor Alice has been fretting herself to death all the way here, not to mention the fact we were forced to travel with Leo in the dead of night.”

  As he spoke, Alice handed baby Leo, who was sleeping peacefully, into the arms of his nanny.

  Helena swallowed, not taking offence at the man’s fury as she knew it stemmed from fear of what trouble his sister was in. She wondered how on earth he would take the news that Matilda was not only in grave danger, but had likely become Lord Montagu’s lover. Well, one explosion at a time.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, embracing Alice, who looked extremely well, despite the anxiety in her eyes and the fraught nature of their journey. “I’m afraid it couldn’t be helped. Do come through, and Gabe and I will explain everything.”

  She showed the two latecomers into the huge drawing room and Nate stopped in his tracks as he saw the assembled company.

  Prue sat in a chair by the fireplace, with the duke standing behind her. Aashini and her husband, Lord Cavendish, mirrored their stance on the other side. On the sofas, set at right angles to the fireplace, sat Harriet and Bonnie—with their husbands, Jasper and Jerome—then Minerva and Inigo, and Jemima and Solo.

  Nate turned to stare at Helena as Gabe came and stood beside her, sliding a reassuring arm about her waist.

  “I think you’d best tell me at once,” he said, his expression grim.

  Helena looked to Gabe, who smiled at her as everyone sat down. Gabe remained standing, keeping hold of Helena’s hand as she sat and gathered herself for the coming storm. Helena opened her mouth to speak when the door opened once more, and her uncle came in. He paused, his eyebrows going up as he saw everyone.