But now she did not care. She felt lost in eyes no longer guarded, in the heat that warmed her beyond bearing, with the ache that reached to the core of her.
She longed to reach out and push a lock of hair off his forehead, to touch the face that fascinated her.
Instead, she forced herself to take another bite. Her tongue licked her lips. She tried to keep her attention on the leg of chicken but her gaze kept wandering over to Manchester, who had given up any pretense of eating and instead continued to watch her as a muscle flexed in his throat.
“It is very good,” she said.
“Is it now?” he said in a low hoarse voice.
“Mrs. Miller worked very hard on this meal,” she tried again. “I think …”
He raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“I believe she misses cooking for a man. Her feelings will be hurt if she doesn’t think you enjoyed it.”
“I will tell her I enjoyed it intensely.” His mouth crooked up at the side in a half smile.
“She will think you lied if the food is still there.”
“I will hide a piece in my coat.”
“It will ruin your coat.”
“Ah, a small price to pay for making a woman happy.”
“Lying, you mean.”
“If necessary.”
“You lie a lot,” she observed.
“And you do too, I think,” he said. “It appears we are birds of a feather.”
She had nothing to reply to that, so she took another piece of chicken and played with it.
“You look charming when you do that,” he said.
“Do what?”
“Lick your lips.”
She was accustomed to flattery, to wild extravagant compliments, but his observation was somehow far more seductive. Her blood seemed to slow and thicken like warm honey.
“What do you want?” she finally managed.
“At the moment?”
She found herself smiling. “I think I know what you want at this moment.”
“And you?”
She knew what she wanted, too. Unfortunately it was a very dangerous and unfortunate want.
“I want to know why you are pretending to be a foolish man.”
“I think all men are foolish around you.”
She sat straight. “Words,” she said. “Words designed to hide the truth. Why are you here? In London? Why do you want a business arrangement with a man known to be less than honest?”
The lazy, sensuous eyes didn’t blink.
“I do not know him to be less than honest.”
“It is common rumor.”
“It is also common rumor that I am a disgrace to a long and noble title.” His voice was full of irony.
She wiped her mouth with the napkin.
“And now my turn,” he said. “Why did the bracelet mean so much to you?”
“You told me nothing. It is not your turn at all.” The level of heat and electricity had risen to astounding levels. She felt her every nerve reacting to him. Only words kept them apart. Only words constituted armor. Without them …
Without them, she would succumb to him. Even now, she was tempted to reach out to him.
You cannot trust any man.
How many times had her mother told her that? How many times had she watched the truth of the words?
Then why …?
“I think you should go,” she said.
He rose. “As the lady wishes,” he said. “I wish you luck with the good earl.”
His voice was light. It didn’t hold any of the passion his eyes had just held. Instead, both his eyes and voice were well masked.
“Good night,” she said, standing. She wondered whether she had been the only one to feel the magic.
He leaned over. His fingers touched her cheek, and then he kissed her. It was not the kiss of a foolish man. Or an indolent one.
Nor was hers the response of a loose woman after another man.
It was pure volcanic. Layers upon layers of molten heat.
He stepped back. So did she. Her legs trembled slightly. She’d never wanted anything as badly in her life.
Except her father’s downfall.
She swallowed hard.
Neither of them moved beyond that one step. Neither of them ran for safety.
Strange that she would think of it in that way. And include him in the thought.
Yet despite the mystery—even danger—whirling around him, she did not want him to go. The room would become colorless without him. The air would become stale. The day would become just another day.
Color lay in holding out her hand. She knew it. Felt it.
Color.
Life.
She had acted life. She had not felt it.
She was a woman, and yet she had never felt a man’s tenderness. She had never allowed herself intimacy. She had not even been curious about it. Her mother had loved, and it had destroyed her.
She’d never wanted to be naive.
He stepped closer again. Despite his words, he seemed no more able to leave than she was to insist that he do so.
His fingers touched her chin, then the hollow of her throat. She knew he must feel the sudden speed of her pulse.
“I should go,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“You want me to?”
“Yes.” But she heard no certainty in her voice and neither, apparently, did he.
He leaned over and his lips brushed hers.
The volcano exploded.
Chapter Sixteen
Gabriel had been ready to leave. He’d had enough of games. She was not going to tell him anything, and he certainly didn’t intend to tell her anything she could reveal to the man he’d dreamed about ruining these many years.
Yet he had lingered a moment too long. He had allowed himself to indulge those very compelling feelings. He had wanted to touch her again, to see whether her skin was really as soft as he remembered, whether her hair still smelled of roses. Whether those eyes could ignite fires within him.
Surely not.
Not if he used the discipline that had brought him to where he was. As brittle as her explanations were, as wily as her answers, he saw a vulnerability that touched him. He kept trying to tell himself that it, too, was only a pose, an actress’s trick.
Yet he really didn’t believe that. She did not trust him. He couldn’t complain about that because he didn’t trust her, either. Yet he could not rid himself of a feeling that there might be common cause here.
A feeling that was all too dangerous. If she really was the courtesan she seemed to be, she could destroy him with a word.
Yet the temptation was overpowering. Instead, he kissed her lightly on the cheek, then found himself unable to leave it at that. Her skin was as soft as he remembered, her hair like silk, her breath like the light breeze of a spring day.
She was intoxicating, and he understood why and how she had half of London panting after her.
He wondered whether part of it was because she was so different from other women he had known. Of course, he had taken little time in the past few years to cultivate a woman. Instead, he’d favored women who’d wanted no more than a momentary affair.
He’d never been tempted to linger.
This woman could make him linger for a very long time.
That terrified him, even as it intrigued him.
But he also knew her eyes were on a bigger prize, a wealthier prize.
That thought spurred him. She had no interest in an extended affair. Perhaps a brief interlude would dull the aching need inside him.
All those thoughts flitted through his mind as he hesitated, knowing that he might well not retreat easily from this bed as he had others. Her eyes, now a stormy gray as expressive as a squall at sea, appeared to reflect the same confusion that he had. Doubt mixed with desire.
Desire won. His lips pressed down on hers. He tasted her lips, then his tongue explored her mouth, tentatively at first, then
with a sense of growing urgency.
Her arms went around his neck, and his arms tightened around her, drawing her near. Her gown was muslin and feather light and he could feel her body through it. Soft and supple but with strength. No girl’s body, but a woman’s.
He felt it change as his hands stroked her back, then moved to her breasts as his lips continued their seduction of her mouth. He felt her tremble as his fingers played with her nipples, erotically, intimately, feeling every response: the swelling, the hardening of the nipple. His lips moved down toward the throbbing pulse of her throat and nuzzled it, feeling her quiver, almost vibrating under his touch. He knew exactly what those tremors were, because they were rippling through him, too. His body was no longer his own to rule.
His lips drew away from her, and he looked at her face.
Her body was reacting to his, and reacting in a seductive, instinctive way, but the look in her eyes …
Startled. And her lips … they had engaged his but in a curiously inexperienced way. As if every sensation was new.
She was an experienced woman who played wealthy men against one another, but some of her reactions made him wonder if …
He was wrong. He knew he was wrong. It was just a coquettish game that she played.
His loins were rigid and heated, and he felt as if he were on fire. He couldn’t stop now. He crushed her to him again, his mouth insatiable as it tasted again and wanted even more.
“Your bedroom?”
Her expressive gray eyes looked enormous. Desire burned in them. But so did something else he could not fathom.
She hesitated, and he realized she was struggling with something he did not understand. Then a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
He put an arm around her shoulder, guiding her toward the stairs. “Up the stairs?”
“Yes,” she said. Not oui, he noticed. Her accent sometimes disappeared. It was obvious she was as comfortable with English as with French, and she used French to portray a certain image.
But he would mull over that tomorrow. His curiosity was overshadowed by a more urgent need now.
She led the way to a bedroom. She stopped there, turned, looked at him with questions in her eyes.
He touched her face, tracing her elegant cheekbones with feather-light movements. So soft. So incredibly soft.
He heard a movement behind him. He was loath to turn, to take his attention away from her.
She jerked away, as if burned, then looked beyond him. “It is all right, Dani,” she said. “You can go to bed.”
“Is there anything …” He heard the doubt in the maid’s voice but he did not turn. Instead, he watched emotions cross Monique’s face.
A touch of hesitation. Then, “No,” she said.
He heard footsteps move away. “She is protective of you,” he said softly.
“We have been together a long time.” Her words were little more than a whisper.
“Am I safe?” he asked lightly.
“I do not know whether either one of us is safe.”
He knew she meant herself and him. He didn’t know, either. There had been something from the very first time they saw each other. He’d believed in love. He had seen it between his parents. He also knew how destructive it could be, how it had ultimately destroyed his mother.
But this wasn’t love. It was lust, he told himself. Like recognizing like. They were both after something and didn’t mind using any means available to achieve it. He just wasn’t sure whether their goals were in direct conflict.
If so, this … interlude … was extraordinarily foolish.
And yet his heart quaked as he put his arms back around her and she moved into them and she looked up at him with a kind of wonderment in her eyes, the same fascination he felt. Her lips were already swollen by their last kiss and now with the slightest tremor, they were beguiling.
She is an actress. But despite the mental warning, he saw an odd innocence in her.
Beguiling … and dangerous.
He almost believed she felt the same aching attraction, the same electricity that made his body react in ways not altogether familiar. He nibbled at her earlobe, and her body responded with shivers of what he thought was anticipation. The same anticipation that was enveloping his body in heat.
He’d never before felt this raw, naked, physical appetite. He’d never felt this drumming in his heart, or the intense white hot heat that ran through his body when he touched her, looked at her, and especially when he saw that same flame in her eyes.
His hands undid her buttons on the back of her dress, slowly and sensuously, his fingers lingering possessively on her skin. Heat flooded him, and he had to force himself to go slowly, to give her as much pleasure as he himself intended to take. He tried not to think of Stanhope’s hands on her skin.
He shifted the gown off her shoulders, and she stepped out of it. Dressed only in a sheer shift. No corset over it now. But then with her body she needed none.
Her breasts were taut against the sheer cloth. His hands went inside the shift, fondling her rounded breasts, then the nipples. He heard her swift intake of breath. His hands lifted the shift from her body and she stood naked except for the silk stockings held up by pieces of cloth.
Saints in heaven but she was lovely. He saw the astonished look of pleasure on her face as his hands continued their seduction of her body, hesitating at the back of her neck, running downward, then touching her breasts again, gathering the left one with his hand and leaning down to kiss it. Her expression of wonder and surprise startled him. She seemed to be experiencing these things for the first time.
He took his hands from her and unbuttoned his waistcoat, then his shirt, until he stood in only his tight breeches and boots. She looked at him, the lashes sheltering her eyes, giving her a half-sleepy, sensuous look. Her right hand went to his shoulder, touched and explored, then moved up to his hair.
Now it was his turn to slow, to try to control the spasms her touch created. He tried to warn himself again, but each one of her touches pulled down another stone of his defenses.
Her hand moved again, trailing fire every inch as it moved over his chest and downward, along the skin that stretched taut over the ridged muscles of his body.
His body paid no attention to his mind, not to the scruples or reservations. It had only want now. And it was exercising that in the most blatant way.
His arms went around her, and he pulled her to him. Her body melded into his, kindling a flame he knew would have to burn itself out. Lightning leaped between them, jagged and violent yet blinding them with its intensity. Need took over, a need so great it threatened to consume him. His mouth savaged hers, insatiable as it tasted and wanted more.
He felt the whisper of her breath, then heard the soft groan and he could wait no longer. He lifted her and took her to the bed, his lips still locked on hers. He released them as he lowered her body. He sat on the bed, pulled off his boots, then quickly stripped off his breeches.
For a moment he paused. Something in her eyes again stopped him. But then she held out her hand, and he fell to the bed beside her.
He stroked her body, watching the reactions as his fingers touched the soft hair at the triangle between her thighs. He touched and seduced until she gave a small cry, and he positioned himself above her, moving slowly, teasing, then started to enter. Her arms went around him, holding him tight, and she whimpered as he penetrated deeper till he encountered a fragile barrier.
He had never bedded a virgin, but he knew instantly, and with certainty, that Monique Fremont was exactly that.
It was too late to stop, though. He felt the barrier give, heard her smothered cry.
Damn it to hell. He started to withdraw, but her arms kept him close.
“No,” she whispered.
The word was an aphrodisiac. Very slowly, very cautiously, he moved deeper inside her, feeling a growing response to him. It was instinctive and primitive, and ever so enticing. Sensations built. Need flamed
. Shimmering waves of heat pounded through him. He moved with a rhythm that grew more and more frantic, a whirlwind of power.
Their bodies seemed made for each other, their responses feeding upon the other.
He sought to prolong her pleasure, to savor the infinitely precious moments of unity combined with rushes of pleasure. Then that moment of magnificent explosion …
She cried out, and he knew she too had reached the pinnacle of sensations. He was too aware that he had never made love like this before, nor had he felt the exultation that accompanied the climax.
But as he fell back to earth, his body still shuddering with the aftermath of splendor, one fact kept ringing in his mind.
She had been a virgin.
Monique had never realized that the act of intimacy could be so shattering. She’d never realized it paled the fireworks she’d seen only days ago. Or was it an eon ago?
Even as she had granted him her bedroom, she knew it was a mistake. Inviting him tonight had been a mistake. Succumbing to her runaway emotions was a greater mistake.
But now she had no regrets. She lay in his arms, her body sated but still reacting to sensations that lingered deep inside. There was soreness, yes, but it was nothing compared to the marvelous journey she’d just taken.
He was still inside her, not as he had been seconds before but still warm and throbbing.
He felt as if he belonged there. She had never thought, never believed, the act could be like this. She’d always thought of it as something distasteful. But then she had heard, as a child, the grunts of men from inside a closed door and later saw the tears of her mother, the discoloration of her skin.
But tonight … had been gentleness as well as passion.
His hand caught hers and his fingers tightened around it. He sighed heavily, then moved off her. He rose and went to the water pitcher and found a towel, dampening it.
He returned and gently washed her, his movements slow and tender and even those excited her again. When he’d finished he lay next to her, propping himself up on one elbow and gazing at her.
She knew he had questions. He knew she had been a virgin despite her pose as a worldly woman.
Dancing with a Rogue Page 22
