Wanton in Winter

by Scott, Scarlett

  He whispered her name as he kissed a path down her belly, worshiping her body. “Eugie.” A sigh, a plea.

  Desperation and need mingled.

  Wrong. This was so very wrong. But he had lost control. And now, he was between the smooth curves of her hips. He could see her—all of her—glistening pink flesh beneath a smattering of curls. The pouty plumpness of her clitoris. The cove he wanted to claim as his own.

  He settled his mouth upon her there, suckling her as he had done to her nipple. The taste of her blossomed on his tongue, the sweetness of the most exotic fruit mingled with the spicy musk of woman. Her gasp told him she liked what he was doing, so he sucked harder, then ran his tongue down her seam. He licked into her cunny, gratified when she moaned and thrust against him.

  All the blood in his body was roaring to his cock. He had never wanted anything so badly in his life. Now that he had her beneath him, he could not get enough. Sensation and need overwhelmed him. The taste of her on his tongue, the tiny quivers of her body beneath his, the breathy sounds of contentment she made, almost kittenish. It was so much.

  Too much.

  More than he had bargained for.

  He could not stop now until he was inside her. Until he had claimed her. Until she was his. Just for the night. For this night. He made love to her with his mouth, inhaling deeply of her scent, finding a place with his tongue that seemed particularly sensitive and abrading it lightly with the whiskers of his jaw. When he sucked on her pearl again, she went rigid beneath him, crying out as she spent.

  He should have been concerned about the loudness of her voice in the night, coming from his chamber. But he was past the point of caring about anything other than her pleasure. As she came on his tongue, he glanced up her body, over the gentle swell of her belly, past the mounds of her breasts, to her face. Her head was thrown back in ecstasy, eyes closed tight, lips open, back arched.

  His desire for her was like a beast, overtaking him. Clouding his mind. Drowning out the part of him that had lived a life dedicated to always doing the right thing. He was going to do the wrong thing now. Just once.

  He was going to take her.

  He had to.

  Cam rose between her legs, on his knees, fingers fumbling to tear open the fall of his breeches. In his haste to flee his chamber earlier, he had foregone his smalls. His cock sprang free, swelled, thick, and ready. He felt, at once, as if he had been waiting a lifetime for this moment. Which was strange, since he scarcely knew her but a few days.

  “Eugie.” Her name was torn from him again, and the longing in his own voice cut him like the blade of a dagger.

  He dragged his cock through her slippery folds, asking a question he had no right to pose. He told himself she was experienced. No innocent miss would kiss as she had. No innocent miss would be so eager for assignations. She had done this before. With Cunningham, and though the thought made him want to smash his fist into the baron’s thin blade of a nose, he banished it from his mind.

  There was no place for others here between them. There was only passion.

  “Do you want this?” He held himself still, waiting for her answer.

  There was only one word that would form on her lips.

  “Yes,” she told him.

  Whatever this was, she wanted it. With him.

  She was going to give her body to the Earl of Hertford. Her virginity as well. She should be ashamed of herself. She should put an end to it before they went too far. But something had changed. She had changed. It was as if the journey down the hall in the darkness had made her into someone else.

  All her life, she had always listened to her brother. She had never been reckless like her sister Bea, never longing for romance like Christabella. She was the one who felt too much, who had worn her heart on her sleeve until it had been ruthlessly broken.

  But she did not want to be that Eugie any longer.

  She wanted to be the Eugie who was naked in the Earl of Hertford’s bed, the woman he worshiped with his hands and mouth. The one he wanted.

  His jaw was rigid as he looked down at her, his hazel eyes taking her breath in the warm glow of the candlelight. The cords in his neck were tense. His strong arms were flexed, and she could see so much of him, so many delicious details: the shadow of whiskers on his chin, the whorls of hair on his chest, the veins in his upper arms, the taut ridges of his abdomen.

  “Are you certain?” he asked, his baritone part growl, part silken seduction.

  It made her shiver.

  “Yes,” she said again, but then something occurred to her. She did not know his Christian name, and they were as intimate as man and woman could be, flesh on flesh, his body about to join hers. “What shall I call you?”

  “Cam,” he gritted.

  “Cam,” she repeated.

  She liked the sound of it, the shortness of it. She liked the way he looked, his big body dominating hers, her legs spread, his manhood protruding from his opened breeches. He took himself in hand as she watched, gripping the long, rigid length. How beautiful it was, that part of him, and she wanted to touch it. Would have, had he not settled himself against her and thrust it inside.

  One pump of his hips. She tensed at the invasion, at the unexpected feeling of it. He was too large. Or she was too small. There was a burning pinch, a throb.

  He held himself still, staring down at her with a strange expression on his face. “You are a virgin.”

  Of course she was. Had been. What had he thought? What had she expected him to think, with her brazen behavior?

  Shame swirled through her, chasing the pleasure. “Cam,” she began.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “I have never… Have I hurt you?”

  Yes.

  “No,” she lied. What hurt the most was on the inside. Her heart. Or perhaps her pride.

  “Let me make it better,” he said.

  She wondered how he could.

  But then, his mouth was on her. He was sucking her nipples, and his touch moved between them to stroke her. He moved slowly, withdrawing, sliding through the slickness of her channel. The pleasure returned. Desire was a knot, building, tangling her up.

  He thrust again, pressing deeper, and the pain dimmed. The discomfort was replaced by only a wondrous fullness. The sensation of him inside her was nothing short of exquisite.

  His mouth was on her neck again, sucking. Devouring her as if she were the finest sweet. His breaths were harsh and hot on her skin. She gave in to the sensation, to the need. Everything else fled. There was only the two of them, moving as one. She learned how to undulate her hips beneath him, chasing more, chasing the pleasure building to a new crescendo.

  Her release slammed into her with a force that had her body bowing, her head back. A cry was on her lips, and then his mouth was on hers, swallowing the cry. His tongue was slipping inside, tasting her as his body continued to slide in and out of hers. Faster now. The thrill of it licked down her spine. She tasted herself on his mouth. On his tongue.

  As the last of her spasms subsided, he jerked himself from her body, gripped his shaft, and spent his seed into the bedclothes. There was blood on his hand, faint traces of it on his manhood. Hers, she realized as he rolled to his back at her side.

  She felt alive as she never had before. Her body ached and tingled in strange places. Her breaths were ragged and harsh. Languor stole over her, and she was suddenly drowsy. He gathered her to his side, pressed a kiss to the top of her head in a tender gesture that pricked her heart.

  But then he said the last words she wanted to hear.

  “I am sorry, Eugie.”

  Her head was nestled on his chest, above his madly thumping heart. He was warm and reassuring, his massive frame curved around hers despite their state of undress. She realized he was still wearing his breeches.

  The confusion on his face as he had entered her returned, as did the telltale manner in which he had stiffened. The disbelieving tone in his voice when he had uttered the most damning w
ords of all. You are a virgin.

  As if he had expected her to be a well-practiced courtesan.

  “You believed the rumors,” she said.

  She knew it was true, but part of her needed to hear his confirmation. The words from his lips. The scent of him and their lovemaking was rich in the air, somehow a comfort and a reproach at the same time.

  The silence was damning.

  “Eugie—”

  “No,” she cut him off, lifting her head from the warmth of his chest because she knew she must. She had been foolish with him. More foolish than she had been with the baron. More foolish than she had ever been.

  The regret on his countenance hit her like a blow.

  “I am sorry,” he said again.

  But she did not want his apologies.

  She scrambled from the bed, acutely aware of her nudity, searching for her night rail. It had been tossed to the floor in a heap. Somehow, it was the sight of that white linen discarded upon the carpet, more than the blood she had shed, which made her realize she had just lost her maidenhead to a man she scarcely knew.

  To a man who had believed the worst of her.

  How stupid she was. She snatched it up and threw it over her head, dashing away more proof of her foolishness with the back of her hand. Tears: hot, humiliating. She could not stop them.

  “Eugie.” He had risen from the bed without her taking note, and his hand was on her back now, tracing her spine in a caress.

  She stepped away from him, whirling. “Do not touch me.”

  “We will marry, of course,” he said, staring at her, standing there clad in nothing but his breeches, unfairly beautiful. “I will go to your brother in the morning and ask for your hand.”

  “No,” she snapped at him. “We will not. And you will not.”

  Dev would kill him. And her. She did not say all that, however. Because she could not say anything. Her emotions were choking her. Her tears were embarrassing her.

  She did not wait for his response. Did not bother to retrieve her dressing gown. She simply fled.

  Chapter Eight

  Cam woke to the scent of Eugie on his sheets. To the reminder of his folly vividly represented in the specks of her blood mottling the bed linens.

  And to a hard cock.

  Because he was a beast.

  A stupid, rutting beast.

  He had lost control. He had become no better than his father. Had betrayed his sense of right and wrong. Had taken Eugie’s innocence. Something he had no right to claim. And he wanted to do it now all over again.

  Lord God, the feeling of being deep inside her body. She had been so tight, so wet. He could still feel the heat of her. The trace of his tongue over his lower lip revealed he could still taste her, too.

  He passed a hand over his face, groaning in misery. He had been wrong about her. Some part of him had known it before he had torn through her maidenhead. Before the cloud of hurt darkening her eyes when she had made the realization of just how much of an ass he was.

  He had merely been so greedy, so selfish in his desire for her, he had not listened to the voice of reason. Her response to him had inflamed him. She did not kiss like a virgin. He had told himself a virgin would not permit the liberties he had taken.

  He realized now what a blockhead he had been. He had never kissed a virgin. Had never done more than dance with one, beneath the glittering chandeliers of a society ball and the watchful eyes of mamas and chaperones. How the bloody hell would he know how they kissed? What they allowed?

  Why had he taken her without the binds of matrimony?

  And why did it have to be her, the Winter most embroiled in scandal?

  He knew why. Because there was something about her that called to him in a way no other woman before her had. He had seen her, and he had wanted her. That night at the ball, he had thought she had looked like an invitation to sin, and he had been right. But it was more than that, if he were honest.

  More than her generous breasts, her luscious curves, her sweet lips, her beauty.

  It was Eugie.

  And she had left a part of her behind in his bed. His hand settled in her dressing gown now, grasping the soft fabric as if seeking her warmth, as if chasing the feel of her. He raised it to his nose before he could stop himself and inhaled deeply. There it was, the scent of fragrant summer blossoms. Her skin had smelled of it everywhere.

  Ah, her silken, creamy skin. Her legs.

  Still holding her dressing gown, he threw back the bedclothes with his free hand and rose. He had not been the same ever since he had cast his eye upon a goddess in a red gown. And he could not pluck her from his mind now. She was nothing he should want, and all he desired.

  He was going to make her his countess.

  There was no question of it, in spite of her denial last night. In spite of her reputation, which he now had firsthand knowledge was a blatant falsehood. He had made a fine muck of things. But he would seek out Eugie at the first possible opportunity. He had to make this right.

  Without further harm to the lady in question.

  Which meant he had a dressing gown to hide and some bed linens to dispose of.

  And then, he had a lot of thinking to do.

  A knock sounded at Eugie’s chamber door, and for a fleeting foolish moment she thought it was him.

  The Earl of Hertford.

  Cam.

  The man she had lain with last night. Who she had given her maidenhead.

  Her fists clenched on the counterpane, and she pulled it protectively to her chin. She did not want to see him. Did not want to look at him. Because if she did, her defenses would crumble. If she did, she would recall every blazing moment of what had happened between them last night.

  That was a lie.

  She was already thinking of it. Had not stopped, all through the hours she had lain awake in the darkness, nor all the hours since she had risen after finally falling into a fitful slumber. How could she forget?

  Everything had changed for her in a glorious, life-altering way, and yet she was terrified. Because the earl wanted to marry her. And she suspected she knew why…

  The door opened and her sister-in-law, the elegant Lady Emilia, appeared. Her lovely face was pinched with concern as she closed the door at her back and crossed the chamber.

  “Eugie,” she said softly as she settled on the side of the bed. “What is the matter?”

  Eugie had asked for her breakfast to be delivered to her chamber this morning, not ready yet to face the gathering. To face her sisters, Lady Emilia, her brother.

  To face the earl.

  “I have my courses,” she lied. “I am feeling rather ill. Forgive me for not attending breakfast. I know you have gone to great lengths to organize this house party for the sake of me and my sisters.”

  And I have ruined it and myself.

  Emilia’s gaze slipped to Eugie’s throat. “Are you certain that is the real reason you avoided the breakfast table?”

  A gnawing sense of worry overtook her. “Yes, of course it is.”

  “I have some pearl powder which ought to serve you well,” Lady Emilia said solemnly. “Or perhaps a fichu, placed just right.”

  Her dread grew. “I am afraid I do not understand. How can a fichu or a powder remedy a female complaint?”

  Her sister-in-law’s lips compressed as she eyed her with a frank stare. “You have distinct marks on your throat, my dear. From a man’s whiskers. That is why you are hiding here, is it not?”

  Dear heavens. She had not ventured to look in the glass this morning. She had simply been too distraught over her recklessness, too hurt that everything she had feared about the earl had been true. Hiding, it was true. Hiding from Hertford, from what they had done together.

  Hiding from the horrible suspicion which had occurred to her by the grim light of dawn, when she had jolted awake in her bed. The suspicion that the earl had not bedded her because he had believed Cunningham’s vicious lies about her, but rather because h
e, too was a fortune hunter.

  Only, he had succeeded where the baron had failed. He had compromised her in deed and not just word. His proposal had been instant. It had not been a question, but a statement. She had to discover if he was in need of a wealthy bride just as the baron had been.

  “Eugie,” her sister-in-law prodded gently. “That is the reason, yes?”

  Mortified heat flared in her cheeks. “I do not wish to have this conversation with you,” she stammered at last, hating the penetrating stare her brother’s wife had leveled upon her, which seemed to see far too much.

  “Would you prefer to have it with me or with your brother?” Emilia asked.

  Though her voice remained soft and concerned, there was an edge hiding behind it. Her sister-in-law was gentle and kind, but fierce when need be.

  “You know I would rather have it with you,” she forced herself to respond.

  Dev was a wonderful brother, always putting the needs of his sisters first, but he was also exceedingly protective. She shuddered to think what would happen if he discovered the truth of what had occurred the night before. He and Hertford would tear each other apart. Though her brother was large and strong, so, too was the earl. It was difficult to determine which of them would emerge the victor, and it was a battle she had no wish to see.

  “Then you must be honest with me, Eugie,” Emilia said now. “I cannot help you if you are hiding the truth from me.”

  She did not dare tell her sister-in-law the full extent of her folly, did she? No, she did not. She was not certain if she could tell anyone. If she could bear to form the words.

  Where to begin?

  “What do you know of the Earl of Hertford?” she asked, for her alarm had only continued to grow.

  The small seed of doubt had already taken root and sprouted. But she would not be trapped. She would sooner spend the rest of her days hidden away in shame first.

  Emilia frowned. “Is he the one?”

  “Please.” She closed her eyes for a moment, battling her emotions. Her heart was as sore as her body, aching in all the places he had claimed. “Just tell me…is he pockets to let?”