A Most Scandalous Engagement

by Gayle Callen

  “Just kiss me,” he murmured. “A man needs to be kissed.”

  Her hands sliding around his waist, she leaned in and kissed him over and over, her lips slightly parted, meeting with his as she turned her head this way and that. She licked his chin and felt the rasp deliciously along her tongue. With her mouth she traced the tendons of his throat, moving lower, even as she lifted his shirt. She was trembling with excitement, no longer nervous. Her body felt hot and yearning and tingling, especially down low between her spread thighs. She wanted to press herself against him, remembering how he’d done that last night. But then there had been so many more clothes between them.

  She kissed the center of his bare chest, then hovered above his nipple. With a wicked glance up at him, she whispered, “Should I? This touch certainly felt good.”

  “God, yes.” His voice was hoarse and unrecognizable.

  She leaned forward and licked his nipple, slow strokes, then tickling little strokes, until she drew the little bit into her mouth. With a groan, he put his arms around her. She straightened in surprise at the way he took over, about to protest. Then he pulled her hard against him. Her open thighs straddled his hips, and she gasped as her softness met a long hard length.

  “Is that the part of a man that goes inside a wife?” she asked.

  “And it can do other miraculous things. No more questions.”

  And then he was kissing her, deep, throat-touching kisses that explored her mouth. She met his tongue, played with it, suckled it. And all the while he moved between her legs, rolling against her as he had last night.

  But this time—this time it felt even better.

  Chapter 15

  Peter was dazed with lust, overcome by the knowledge that at last he held a very willing Elizabeth in his arms. Why ever she had agreed to this playing, he didn’t care. There was no other man between them now—she held nothing back.

  And the feel of her hot depths cradling his erection, even through his trousers, almost made him come. But he thrust his tongue into her mouth instead, trying to hold her hips still, but she kept wiggling, kept pressing herself, her little moans lost between their lips. He had to have more of her.

  Never breaking their kiss, he swiftly unhooked her gown to her waist. As the fabric fell forward, her arms became trapped and she could no longer hold him. He didn’t even know if she realized that she pulled her arms from the short tight sleeves, but then her hands were on him again, up under his shirt in the back, caressing him as he’d imagined a thousand times during long sleepless nights.

  The corset laces came free next, and he was able to pull the contraption right over her head. Before he could even gather her breasts in his hands, she groaned and leaned into him, rubbing herself all over him. Then he took her shoulders and laid her back on his thighs. He cupped her breasts through her chemise, and she moaned and arched into his hands, her hips pressing even harder against his erection, her head spilling back over his knees. He played with her nipples through the linen, but at last he bared her to his hungry gaze. Her breasts were perfect, darkly rouged at the tips, full enough that she wouldn’t fit into his mouth.

  But he was going to test that theory. He bent over the feast of her body and pressed his mouth between her breasts, moving back and forth to feel the sloping curves against his cheeks.

  “Peter, oh Peter!”

  That was his name on her lips, no other man’s, thank God. He rewarded her by circling her nipple with his tongue, then taking it into his mouth. She cried out and held his head to her. She was rocking against him, he was rocking into her, and it would be so easy to unbutton his trousers, to give her what they each so desperately wanted—

  But did he want this to be Elizabeth’s first memory of lovemaking? Rushed and cramped in a carriage circling London? This was the woman he wanted to marry, not some mistress to be treated so roughly.

  He pulled her upright, and her dark, feverish eyes searched his face. “Please, Peter, please, don’t stop.”

  “But I have to,” he said, his own voice trembling. “You wouldn’t forgive either of us otherwise.”

  Her eyes widened, invaded with her first regrets. He wanted to find some way to end this more playfully.

  “Let me see you,” he said.

  “What?” she murmured, shaking her head.

  He slid all the way to the left on the bench, then lay her out next to him, pulling her skirt down around her hips until he could just see the top of her dark pubic curls.

  “Arch your body, Elizabeth. Lift your arms over your head. Show me the pose captured in the painting.”

  For the briefest moment she did so, and the lamplight caught the creamy skin of her breasts, the indentation of her navel, the erotic bones of her hips.

  And then she started to cry.

  “Elizabeth?”

  He lifted her up and tried to hold her, but their bare flesh touching only seemed to make her cry harder, so he pulled her chemise up between them and readjusted her so she sat across his lap rather than straddling him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, using the back of her forearm to wipe her face, and her words continued to tumble out. “This isn’t your fault, none of it’s your fault. It’s all because of me.”

  When she trembled in his arms, he pressed her head to his shoulder so he could kiss her soft hair. An ache built in the center of his chest, spreading outward, tightening his throat.

  “Elizabeth—”

  “No, don’t find some excuse to hold me blameless. I’m the one who forced you into a public engagement; I’m the one who wanted to practice on you, for God’s sake.”

  “And I haven’t complained.”

  “But don’t you see?” She tilted her head up, and the light caught the tears that streaked her face. “I’m behaving just like my brother!”

  He knew he gaped at her, but he was dumbfounded. “Like Madingley? What does he have to do with us?”

  “I have forgotten myself,” she whispered. “Once I realized—realized how my antics affected my family, I tried to be so good, so level-headed, the one not attracted to scandal in any way.”

  “And you’ve been all of those things.”

  “Oh, I convinced myself it was true. But there’s this—passion inside me, these emotions I obviously don’t know how to control. You warned me—you said that underneath I was reckless and wild.”

  “But—”

  “And I didn’t believe you! I didn’t want to believe you! Even though I had my brother’s example to follow. He fought so hard to prove himself because he was half Spanish, thinking fighting made people forget his heritage.”

  “You’ve never had to prove yourself.”

  “No? Then what do you think I’m doing right now? Perhaps I’m proving that I’m desirable, that just because one man doesn’t want me, another does.”

  “Elizabeth—”

  “Peter, you know that Chris’s temper was so uncontrollable that he fought a man, and the man lost the use of his legs!”

  “It was an accident. Michael Preston hit his head. And he was the one provoking the fight. Don’t forget that his medical condition has improved, I hear.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t until Mr. Preston couldn’t walk that Chris realized how out of control he was. Chris still has a difficult time living with the fact that our father died thinking he would destroy the dukedom with his irresponsible ways.”

  “That didn’t happen.”

  “No, it didn’t. But I was so smug—I never thought I had such problems! I had grown up, matured, become the perfect lady. But here I am, my passions out of control so much that I can’t even stay true to one man!”

  “You’re not being fair to yourself, my sweet. This nameless man doesn’t even know how you feel.”

  “I thought I was trying to show him,” she whispered. “But I guess I can’t trust myself.”

  She climbed off his lap and Peter didn’t try to stop her. He wanted to hit something, to lash out because o
f his own stupidity—but that would only frighten her. Had he learned nothing from all his mistakes, his belief that he was always in the right? He obviously didn’t know the depth of Elizabeth’s pain. But he’d never been one to dwell on emotional pain.

  Instead he began to pull his clothing back on as she did the same. After struggling into her corset, she was balanced on the end of the bench, trying to reach the laces, but wasn’t having much success.

  “Let me help,” he said gently.

  With a sigh and slump of her shoulders, she did. Soon he had her laced up, and then her gown hooked back together. She wrapped her shawl around herself so tightly that for a moment he felt as if she were guarding against his attack.

  But he knew she didn’t believe that of him. Holding back a sigh, he reached behind him and knocked on the ceiling, alerting the coachman.

  Elizabeth gave a dispirited sigh. “If I would have known it was that easy, I would have tried it myself.”

  He only arched a brow.

  “No, no, that’s not true. I didn’t try to get away from you at all.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t want to get away from what we feel.”

  Wearing a bleak expression, she murmured, “It’s wrong for our bodies to feel like that.”

  He thought she was deliberately misunderstanding him—or perhaps she really was such an innocent. He let it go.

  Mary Anne knew she’d lost the horse race yesterday, so she accepted her punishment with determined grace—a shopping trip with Elizabeth. Peter had escorted her to Madingley House, then left her alone in a drawing room. There was a palace to explore, she realized—and a billiard room to find. It was all too easy, for the servants were happy to help.

  In the doorway of the billiard room, she stopped in awe. There were two tables. The ceiling was carved in the most intricate designs, flowing about the set of lamps lighting the center of each table. The cues were lined in racks on the wall, and she reached for one, admiring the balanced weight of it, then began to place the balls on the table.

  “You must be out of reading material.”

  She gave a start at the interruption, glad she wasn’t about to make a shot. To her surprise, Lord Thomas Wythorne leaned in the doorway, all lazy elegance. She’d first seen him dancing with Elizabeth at the Ludlow ball. He was handsome in that arrogant way of aristocrats, with brown waves of hair about sharp cheekbones. He’d looked down on Elizabeth with too much boldness, a rakish smile never leaving his face. A confident man, so sure of his place in the world. Mary Anne couldn’t imagine how that felt.

  Now, his knowing smile made it seem like he guessed everything about her, every weakness. She stiffened. No wonder Elizabeth had looked like she wanted to escape him.

  Mary Anne lifted her chin and spoke coolly. “We haven’t been introduced.”

  He walked toward her, his stride long and loose and graceful. Then he bowed, his eyes never leaving her face. “Thomas Wythorne.”

  “Don’t forget the ‘lord’ at the beginning. It’s right there in your voice.”

  He only chuckled. “So you know of me.”

  “I saw you dancing with Lady Elizabeth, and since she is to be my sister-in-law, I made it my business to know who you are.”

  Something flickered in his eyes. “Sister-in-law? Then you must be Peter Derby’s sister.”

  “Brilliant deduction, my lord.” Mary Anne never allowed herself to be alone with men—especially men who exuded danger from their very pores. She could feel a faint tremble thrum through her, but there was something about his sense of entitlement that annoyed her, that made her speak more freely than she usually did. She held the cue planted on the floor and looked him in the eyes. “And here’s my brilliant deduction,” she continued. “You’re visiting here, just as I am.”

  “Passing the time while my mother and the dowager duchess gossip.”

  Gossip. That’s all he thought women did. It infuriated her.

  “Do you play?” he asked. “Or are you bedeviled by boredom?”

  She let her demeanor soften into regret as she glanced at the table. “My brother taught me the rules, but he hasn’t found the time to practice with me.”

  “I imagine Lady Elizabeth is a demanding fiancée.”

  There was the faintest question in his voice, and that made her curious enough to look into his handsome face again. “Demanding? They’ve only just announced the engagement. Both mothers certainly expect a lot from them right now.”

  “Defending them both. How admirable.”

  Defending her brother anyway. She looked at the door, hoping he would take the hint and leave.

  “You’re not surprised by this sudden engagement?” he persisted.

  Whatever her feelings, they were none of his business. “Not at all. Peter accomplished what he wanted.”

  He frowned briefly, and she thought she would have to refuse to discuss her brother’s private life, but Lord Thomas walked to the elegantly detailed racks on the wall and chose a cue.

  “Since both of us are passing the time,” he said, “shall we play a game?”

  He’d stepped right into the trap she’d set for him, and all she had to do was close it tight.

  “You will certainly beat me and won’t enjoy it at all. You would do better to find men to bet with.”

  “I have money,” he said.

  She widened her eyes. “Really? You would play me for money? How wicked!” She hadn’t come prepared for a game, but she did have several pounds in her purse. She pulled the coins out and set them on the baize cloth of the table.

  He grinned. “Won’t they be in the way there?”

  “Of course you’re right.” She set them aside, then smiled at him. “Don’t even bother producing your purse, my lord. We both know the outcome. Now you go ahead and go first.”

  He chalked the tip of his cue. “Do you know English billiards?”

  She drew out her hesitation. “The one with the two white balls and the red?”

  He nodded, and she reluctantly had to give him credit for not appearing too patronizing. Then the game was on, and he began to accumulate points. She was very good at playing confused and uncertain. And she’d mastered girlish giggling as if it were an art form.

  When she put her ball right off the table, she gasped. “Oh, dear, that’s a foul, isn’t it? Two points for you.”

  She let him get comfortably in the lead, before she decided she’d made him out to be a fool long enough. She began to “accidentally” accumulate points, making one shot when she’d attempted another, acting quite excited and stunned when a ball sank into a pocket.

  When it was his turn and she was only a few points behind him, Thomas leaned a hip against the table and studied her.

  “Do you usually win the purse like this?” he asked casually.

  She straightened and met his stare, her smile deliberately coy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He didn’t say anything, just continued to smile.

  She finally couldn’t help but laugh. “You caught me.”

  “You’re a sharp,” he said slowly, with even a bit of admiration.

  “Compliments won’t work with me. Why don’t we finish the game, my lord?”

  They did, and he won. She handed over her coins.

  “I’m not certain I can take this from a lady. Shall we play again? I am very impressed at your skill misdirecting shots that still score points. Perhaps you can teach me a trick or two.”

  She blinked at him. Men didn’t usually like to lose to a woman—and he hadn’t lost, although his temporary belief in her charade was a loss of sorts. But he didn’t bluster about how she’d lied to him. He saw through her, not assuming she was stupid, as so many men did. She liked that.

  But he was still a strange, intimidating man.

  Elizabeth strode down Bond Street with Mary Anne at her side. The sun peaked through puffy white clouds, the temperature was pleasant, and other shoppers crowded the pavement. She told h
erself to enjoy the day, glad that Mary Anne didn’t seem to mind looking in every shop window, which Elizabeth always enjoyed. It helped her forget about her embarrassing confession to Peter.

  She was allowing herself to become distracted from her goals. Only two weeks remained before her brother returned for the Kelthorpe Masked Ball. If she didn’t have her own life figured out, Christopher would do it for her—for her own good, he’d tell her.

  She had to let go of her anxiety over every returning weakness she discovered in herself. No one was perfect. Why did she hold herself to a higher standard than anyone else? It was better to understand her faults and improve. Now that she knew she could lose control of her emotions again, she would do a better job of containing them. Her brother had mastered that skill; so could she. Peter had somehow brought them out of her, and she should thank him for showing her the truth.

  But she knew she wasn’t going to do that. When Peter had brought his sister to the house that afternoon, Elizabeth made sure she was never alone with him, although he tried to make that happen. He wanted to talk everything to death, trying to help her. He seemed very eager to talk, unless it was about his recent, mysterious past.

  She told herself that she was getting swept away learning what might please William, when she should be spending more time in William’s presence. That was the logical conclusion. Only . . . it was starting to seem pointless, even . . . uninteresting.

  How could she think that? she wondered, aghast.

  Lucy’s note this morning, telling her that William would be attending the Royal Italian Opera at Covent Garden this night, was the perfect solution for her to refocus herself—on both of her goals.

  “Mary Anne?”

  Peter’s sister must not have heard her, because she continued walking, her gaze unfocused.

  “Mary Anne?”

  The woman gave a start, her smile distracted. “Yes, Lady Elizabeth?”

  Elizabeth touched her arm. “I wish you wouldn’t use my title. We’ve never needed to be formal with each other.”