She backed away rapidly, her buttocks and then her back slamming into something solid. The wall between the windows. An unwise move. She ought to have darted sideways. But it was too late. He swiftly closed the distance between them.
Still, she tried to evade him by surging forward and to the side. Caught by an iron grip on her arm, she found herself impelled backwards. He pressed his large frame into her, slamming her back against the wall, pinning her on either side with his powerful thighs. He placed one hand on her arm and gripped her firmly and laid the other at the base of her throat.
Atavistic thrills shot through her; tingling energy. She’d never been so aware of her body. Never felt so present in a moment.
A slight smile softened his thin, hard mouth. The unmistakable ridge of his erection pressed against her. “Why are you in such a hurry to leave, Lady Cranfield?”
“Please.” A strange lassitude made her voice sensual and slurred. Wetness began to seep between her legs.
He removed his hand, then traced the cord of her throat down to her collarbone with a fingertip. Sparks of delight shot down to her nipples, turning them into hard points. She arched her neck and leaned in to the teasing touch, then caught herself, snapping back into place.
“Please what?” he demanded. He slid his hand beneath the sheer black kerchief tucked into her bodice, neatly pushing under her stays then touching the swell of her breast.
She opened her mouth, intending to firmly rebuff him, but his questing fingers found her nipple, brushing it. Delight sparked through her. She caught her breath, her sigh feathery and light, carrying the dangerous sound of surrender.
“You have the softest, silkiest skin, like dark, warm honey. And for the past days, I have had the most compelling mental image. Of you, bare naked, bent over that crimson divan, waiting for me to put my cock in you.”
Shock washed over her. No one had ever said the word ‘cock’ to her except to describe a rooster. She should have been insulted but instead heat streamed into the nub between her legs, making it tighten, swelling her inner lips. Did he really think of her that often—and in that way? Oh, God. Warm wetness gushed from her, spilling down along her inner thighs.
She stared at him, open mouthed.
“Don’t you want that too—my cock filling you?”
The wetness was spilling, spilling… Need filled her, sent her trembling. Her sex pulsed so hard, she gasped. “Please, let me go.” Damn. Her demand came out sounding like a question. He uttered a sibilant sound. He pressed against her, flattening the soft globe to make enough room for his further invasion beneath her gown, stays and undergarments. There were some tearing sounds. Threads popping. Seams opening. His warm palm cupped her breast.
Her nipples pulled into pebbled peaks. He exerted more pressure, slowly increasing the firmness of his touch. Pleasure slammed through her. Oh, let him keep on doing what he was doing…
But she still possessed some of her wits. She determined to repeat her request, more firmly this time. “Let me—”
He brought his lips down on hers, swift and harsh, the way she had imagined he would kiss. He pressed her breast tighter, gently crushing its softness as he thrust his tongue into her mouth again and again, melting her bones until she lay limp in his arms. The folds between her legs swelled, tingling heat streaming through her as her sex clenched over and over. The core of her was empty—so very empty. Her pelvis pressed forward into him of its own accord as a moan of surrender issued from deep in her throat. Lightheaded with longing, she gripped his lapels.
He shifted and the heavy weight of his erection bore into her more directly. She arched her hips, seeking intimate contact with that hard, throbbing heat. At the touch of it against her aching, inflamed flesh, she gave a low moan. He bent close, his breath tickling her neck. He nipped her, none too gently. The sharp pain sent another wave of fire through her. She moaned again.
“You want this.” His whisper was deep against her ear.
“No…I-I don’t.” Her reply sounded unsure. It was really no good.
“You need this.” His tone was firm, wholly confident. “You need me.”
He kissed her neck, alternatively nipping and sucking, making her shudder in the wake of pleasurable, anticipatory tingles.
Her sex contracted powerfully, a hollow, hungry, betraying little traitor.
He stopped his passionate assault and lifted his head.
She moaned and arched her neck, thoughtlessly seeking more of his kisses.
She opened her eyes. He had his head cocked towards the door.
He tightened his grip on her. “Damn it.”
With her body held so close, his grittily growled curse reverberated in her bones.
Then she heard it, somehow, above her heart’s rapid cadence. The rumble of men’s voices outside in the corridor.
The effect was a frigid deluge through her heated blood.
She darted a glance at door. She couldn’t be discovered here—it would mean certain ruin. But it was more fear of anyone else knowing her weakness. She’d die rather than let the world know that she was a creature of need. Of feelings. Of lust. Her only protection was her shield of ice.
Dizzily, she darted a glance around the chamber. Then she pushed at Ruel’s chest, struggling wildly. But it did her no good. His large hand remained firmly wedged down her bodice.
He gripped her arm tighter. “Be still, else your gown will tear.”
Forced to wait while he extracted his hand, she stood there panting with fear.
Finally, his hand came free. She propelled herself away from him and adjusted her bodice with a violent, frantic tug. A key scraped in the lock. Desperate, she turned back to Ruel. His jaw hardened and he flicked a glare at the door.
“Under the desk,” he whispered.
“What?”
“Get yourself under the desk,” he said firmly, taking her by the shoulders and pulling her away from the bookcases. He pushed her towards the massive mahogany desk that stood in the centre of the chamber.
Anne scurried under it, like a rabbit seeking its hole, then sat hunched up in the cutout, hugging her knees and feeling foolish. Boots sounded on the floorboards as the gentlemen entered and exchanged greetings with Ruel. During the afternoon’s fencing session someone had issued a challenge to him and they had been searching the house for him, eager to place their bets on the winner.
Long moments passed as the conversation moved from fencing to politics to horses and back to fencing. Her legs cramped in the confined space. She had never felt more foolish in her life. Oh, heavens, how long would they stay and chat? The frame of the desk creaked softly above her. It must be Richard. He liked to sit atop this desk.
Thud.
He also liked to tap his boot on the wooden front.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The sound sent Anne’s heart racing. She froze as their voices and laughter faded away.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
No. It couldn’t be happening—not again. Not after all this time. She clamped her hands over her ears.
It’s not real. It’s not real.
Another scream drowned out her internal mantra. A horse, in pain and afraid. William? Where was William? For the love of God, duck down William!
Thud.
The sound reverberated inside her head as the horse’s hoof hit the vehicle’s wall again. Trying to make herself as small as possible, she hugged her knees tighter and waited. Waited for the hoof to break through the wall. Waited for death.
* * * *
A touch on her arm startled Anne. She was curled up with her chin on her knees and her legs were numb. It was dim here…but where was she? She opened her eyes and turned to the light. A shadowy form crouched there. Boisterous masculine voices and laughter sounded distantly.
The shadowy form leaned a bit closer and took her hand. Strength seemed to flow from the large, warm flesh. “Are you all right?”
Ruel.
His whisper resounded wit
h compassion and understanding. His presence surrounded her, breaking the trance.
She was under the desk, in the study. She was safe. Moreover, she wasn’t alone. He wouldn’t allow anything to happen to her. Whatever else he was—whatever else he wanted—she knew without a doubt that he wouldn’t allow her to come to physical harm.
Thud.
Her heart jumped and she pressed her hand to her chest.
Crack!
Light shone through the interior carriage wall. Water trickled down, transfixing her eye.
Ruel squeezed her hand. “Talk to me.”
She came softly into the moment. It had been only Richard’s boot hitting the outside of the desk again.
She was still in the study. She was safe.
“I need to get out of here. Now. Please.” A sudden lull in the men’s conversation made the last syllables of her whisper sound dangerously loud in the enclosed space. She held her breath.
“I say, we’ve lost Ruel,” said Lord Highsmith.
The desk’s frame gave a mighty creak above her. A heavy body scooting over its surface. “Good God, Ruel, what are you doing down there, crawling on all fours?” Richard called from above, his voice sounded dreadfully close.
“I think he’s inspecting your desk for woodworm,” someone else said, eliciting laughter from the others.
Anne’s heart picked up its pace. Heavens, if she were discovered now, there’d be absolutely no way to explain it. Jon gave her hand another squeeze. Relief washed over her. He wouldn’t let the others discover her. He would think of something.
“I dropped my watch,” he said loudly. Then he backed out and stood. As he walked away, she watched his Hessian boots upon the Asiatic rug. The swirling shades of red appeared like bright splashes of blood. Just like William’s blood, splashing upon her. Nausea washed over her and she shivered.
“Now, what’s all this Lord Parwick says about being able to beat me at rapiers?” Ruel’s voice echoed, deep and strong. Just the sound of it made her feel better.
She wished desperately that he could have stayed with her.
“The brash chap was boasting all day,” Richard said. “Says he can best you.”
“What do you say we go and find him and put the whole matter to rest?”
“A capital idea,” Richard replied.
General assent followed. Their boot falls and voices faded as they departed. At the door’s closing click, Anne’s heartbeat slowed. She eased her cramped and still-shaking body out from under the desk and sat in Richard’s high-backed leather chair. As her breathing slowed, a sudden, crushing tiredness weakened her body. She bent and put her face into her hands.
When would the fears release her? When would life be normal again?
At the door opening, she looked up and straightened her back.
Nellie came rushing in the room, her pretty, apple-cheeked face flushed. “Oh my lady, are you all right?”
“I am fine, Nellie.”
Nellie regarded her dubiously. “Lord Ruel himself came and fetched me here. He said you had grown quite faint and I should come and assist you right away.”
“Yes, well, I did become overheated in the window seat.” As she spoke, Nellie’s mouth made a slight moue, as if expressing how transparent the fib was.
Anne straightened her spine, determined not to be cowed by that sceptical gaze. It was time she wrested her former authority back. “I should like to have a bath before supper. See to it.”
Nellie startled and Anne winced inwardly. The words had come out more sharply than she’d intended.
Nellie quickly recovered and nodded. “Very good, my lady.”
Half an hour later, Anne was soaking in her hipbath, inhaling lavender-scented steam and sipping tea.
Nellie sat on the footstool next to the tub. “Could have knocked me over with a feather when I answered your door and there his lordship was, wearing such a fearsome frown on his face. I don’t think I have ever seen such a tall, fierce-looking gentleman in all my days.” Her eyes shone with questions even she wouldn’t dare to ask.
Anne couldn’t help re-envisioning that moment, under the desk, when Ruel had touched her. When his strength had flowed into her and helped her to crawl out of that terrible place.
“Nellie, I want you to go down to the stables and tell Jimmy to take Neroli for an afternoon ride in the south meadow.”
“Very well, my lady,” Nellie replied, stiffness under her deferential tone. She stood, made a quickly curtsey and left.
Half an hour later, from the south-facing window at the end of the corridor, Anne watched Jimmy riding Neroli. Her throat burnt with both love and futile desperation, for this was as close as she could get to her beloved mare without coming undone with anxiety.
But more than that—within the next two months, the time was coming for Dorothea to arrive. Mama’s next letter would give all the details.
Today’s incident had been beyond disturbing and threatened to crush her hopes of ever overcoming her current situation. What was she going to do? What was she going to do?
* * * *
Jon sat on the piano bench with Francesca Bourchier, the current Countess of Cranfield. He had been idly turning the pages for Francesca as she played but now that Cherry had come to sit, the two ladies had dissolved into gossiping.
Inside, he kept seeing Anne’s dark, sapphire, glazed eyes staring back at him, unseeing. He knew that look, but had never seen it anywhere, except a battlefield or a barracks.
He turned to look at her where she sat on the widow seat. Backlit by the last rays of the setting sun, her skin glowed like rich amber.
She’d eaten next to nothing at dinner and, by his count, she was well into her fourth glass of claret. Young Lord Highsmith stood there, obviously enjoying his view of her dark purple gown, which was far too low cut—the amount of her bosom it exposed was devastating. All day, and now into the evening, Jon’s balls had ached with the memory of his hand pressed close to that velvet-soft flesh. Now blood rushed into his cock, forcing him to shift.
Anne fluttered her lashes and laughed at some remark Highsmith had made. To say she was animated would have been an understatement. He’d never have guessed she could be so unreserved. Then again, in the brief time he’d known her, he’d never yet seen her down so much claret as quickly as she had at supper. Yet her laughter held a hollow note that resonated uneasily in his guts.
She looked up and her reckless eyes met his. As he returned her stare steadily, they hardened to defiance.
Remorse soured Jon’s stomach. Blame for her current state of thin nerves lay at his feet. He had placed her into the position where she had ended up under the desk, trapped. And it had apparently triggered a strong memory of the accident.
After he’d drawn the gentlemen out of the study, he’d fetched Lady Cranfield’s abigail to her. But he’d been distracted by worry the whole afternoon, so that he’d almost lost to Parwick. Unthinkable.
Just three days ago, he’d intended to put distance between them by focusing his attention on others. Well, he’d gained the distance he’d wanted from Lady Cranfield and then some. She’d behaved as if he were invisible to her. As if she didn’t even notice his attentions to the others. He should have been satisfied with her coolness and left it at that.
Instead it had settled like a burr under his skin. He’d wanted to hurt her, to force a reaction out of her—an emotional reaction. The very type of reaction that had made him seek to distance himself to begin with. Illogical, yes. But knowing how illogical his motivations were hadn’t stopped him. And yet once he had achieved his goal, it had given him no joy. Then she had slapped him.
His cock turned to iron at the thought of her sparkling eyes and flushed face.
He did not want the kind of connection she needed. So what was he doing? Treading dangerous waters…
“She’s dark as a Rom.” The affected, lispy voice cut into Jon’s thoughts.
He turned to see Cherry sittin
g beside him on the settee. Two years had passed since their affaire had burnt itself out. Though they remained friendly enough, the end had been disagreeable. It was the way of their class. Romance among the aristocracy might start out sweetly but it always ended badly. He’d grown up seeing first-hand what marriage between two people of his class meant. Disappointed feelings and expectations. Constant, deceitful manoeuvrings for power and revenge. Polite civility hiding the hatred. He wanted no part of that kind of conflict.
He’d spent his time as an adult pursuing casual liaisons such as the one he’d previously shared with Cherry—frivolous and pretty confections that made life a little sweeter.
Marriage was a business arrangement, not a romantic experience. But ladies always had marriage—along with romance—on their minds.
Something he’d best keep in mind with the lovely Lady Cranfield. She was a duke’s daughter, after all. She would have her pride. He’d better not let his sympathy make him lose his head.
“What are you two prattling about?” he asked.
“We’re talking about Lady Cranfield.” Cherry’s pale brows drew together. “Whose side-slip is she, anyway? The old Duke of Saxby was fair.”
“Don’t you remember?” Francesca asked. “Her mother was a Spaniard.”
“Was she really?” Cherry said.
“Yes, she was the daughter of a Seville merchant. Brought a fortune to Saxby,” Francesca said.
“Probably more like a Creole from the tropics, if you ask me. Impoverished dukes are always the most indiscriminate breeders. They’ll do anything to fill their depleted coffers.” Cherry’s fan strokes grew more rapid as she met his gaze. “Now, what is that look, Ruel?”
“I am trying to decide if I like you with fangs or if they make you look desperate.”
She pursed her lips, then her eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re soft on her—no, do not try to deny it.”
Jon examined her critically. At thirty-eight, with her sky-blue eyes, chestnut hair and yet flawless milk-white skin, she was still considered an Incomparable, but right now she resembled nothing so much as a reptile. “Jealous, Cherry?”
A Measured Risk Page 5
