With a growl he lifted her up and set her backward on the bed. “Not that much.”
So she’d gone out at night to see India. Seeing her in her emerald green traditional garb, her dark-lined eyes, and her rich, sun-kissed skin, she was India. Silently he knelt before her, cupped both of her cheeks in his hands, and kissed her.
Her silk-draped arms slid down around his shoulders, and she sank into his embrace. Whoever was seducing whom, they both seemed equally eager. And since as far as he was concerned their marriage was already a certainty, he didn’t feel as though he was taking advantage.
“The bed, or the floor?” she asked, tugging his coat free.
“Eager, are you?” And very sure of herself. Thank God he wasn’t some green youth on his first rendezvous.
“I know what I want.”
Alternating his movements with hot, open-mouthed kisses, Charlemagne shed his boots, then turned his attention to removing her green veil and headpiece, then the pins that held her hair in long, braided loops. Once it was free, he tangled the long, black cascade through his hands. With it he gently pulled her head back so he could run his lips and tongue along her throat. Her pulse beat madly against his mouth.
With her eager participation he shed his waistcoat and pulled his shirt from his trousers. “Do you think anyone else knows about those hidden doors?” she asked breathlessly, untying the silk knot at her shoulder.
“I doubt even Lady Wexton knows about them,” he returned with a grin, removing her green shoes and setting them on the floor beside him.
He stood, holding a hand down to her so she could rise, as well. While he carefully pulled, she slowly twirled in front of him, yards of green and gold fabric falling away. When the last of the sari drifted to the floor, Sarala was left standing in a long, gold-trimmed shirt and loose trousers that narrowed at the ankles.
“Good God, you are wearing trousers.”
“They’re salwar. The other part’s the kadeez, if you were wondering.” Her smile deepened. “Are you scandalized?”
In response he slipped his hands under her shirt—kadeez—felt the drawstring holding up the trousers, and untied it. “Are you?” he murmured, kneeling to slide the silk material down past her hips, her thighs, and her knees.
“No.” Sarala put her hands on his shoulders for balance and lifted her right foot to step out of the salwar.
As she shifted and he drew the silk over her left foot, he froze. A delicate brown pattern of diamonds and octagonal flowers and flared arches ringed her ankle. He ran his fingers around it, feeling the bone and flesh and muscle beneath. “Is this what I think it is?” he finally asked, lifting his face to gaze at her.
“It’s henna,” she returned, her breathing more ragged. “A parting gift from my friend Nahi.”
Charlemagne turned her ankle and bent down to kiss the tattoo. She gasped as he trailed his mouth up to her knee and the inside of her thigh. He wanted more, but neither did he want to overwhelm her. Setting her foot down again, he stood, kissing her mouth hungrily. “Do you have any more of those tattoos anywhere?”
She moaned as he dragged her hips forward against his. “Not at the moment.” Sarala reached down for the bottom of the kadeez and pulled it up, past her belly, her breasts, and over her head. “Touch me, Shay,” she breathed, sliding her own hands up under his shirt.
He’d assumed she would be shy about exposing herself to a man, but he wasn’t about to complain when she seemed as eager for him as he was for her. Her hands felt warm against his skin. Shifting his kisses to her bare shoulders, he lifted his hands to caress and cup her breasts. Nipples budded beneath his fingers, and she arched her back, gasping again.
Sarala sat back on the bed, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him down over her. He shed his shirt one arm at a time and bent down over her to kiss her again, pressing skin to warm skin. No one else had better know about the secret door.
“You are magnificent, my premi,” she said, lying back and pulling him over her.
“What does that mean?”
“‘Lover.’”
“I am that. How do you say ‘heaven’ in Hindi?” he asked. Breathing her in, near to bursting already, he lowered his mouth to her breasts, gently tugging and licking.
“Akas’a,” she returned, knotting her fingers into the back of his hair.
While his mouth was occupied, he reached down to unfasten his breeches, shove them down, and kick them to the floor. Sarala lifted her head, looking at him, watching as he trailed his hand up her thigh and this time slid a finger up into her hot, damp depths. God, she was so ready for him already.
Their eyes met, and she caught hold of his shoulders to pull him up along her again. He paused once more at her soft, perfect breasts, then moved up to take her mouth once more.
She felt like molten fire in his arms, all heat and desire, with not a pinch of hesitation or worry touching her. That, apparently, was all for him to do. Steeling himself for the care and patience he would still have to show, he put a hand beneath one of her knees and lifted, parting her. She moaned again, lifting her hips beneath him, her thigh brushing his hard cock.
“Now, Shay,” she pleaded, digging her fingers into his shoulders as he shifted over her.
“Not yet,” he murmured, and sank down along her body again. He wanted to taste her, to arouse her and excite her and please her so that after tonight she would never say another word about not wanting to marry him.
With his fingers and his mouth he teased at her until she quivered. “For goodness’ sake, Shay, stop that,” she gasped, laughing breathlessly. “You’ll send me to Bedlam.”
“To akas’a,” he returned, dipping his fingers into her moist depths once more. “To heaven.” He lifted his head to look at her. “This is your last chance, Sarala, if you want to change your mind.”
She tugged on his shoulders. “I am not changing my mind. No negotiating.”
“No negotiating,” he repeated, moving up to kiss her on her soft, swollen lips again.
Breathing hard, he guided himself inside her, pushing forward slowly and carefully, ready for the moment he would meet resistance and have to stop and explain to her that he was about to hurt her for the first and last time. He pressed in further and further, until he was tightly and fully engulfed.
Despite the exquisite sensation, he went rigid with surprise. His body wanted to buck and thrust until he’d emptied himself into her, but he clenched his jaw and held frozen, looking down into her deep green eyes.
“You’re not a virgin,” he grunted, his self-control poised on a knife blade.
Her mouth parted with her deep, fast breathing, she drew his face down to her again. “Neither are you,” she moaned, lifting her hips against his.
“But this—”
“I told you that I couldn’t marry you,” she said, deep sadness mingling with the desire in her eyes. “But don’t leave me yet. Not like this.”
“Bloody, bloody hell,” he snarled.
She lifted her face to his, kissing him again and again, running her hands down his back to his buttocks and digging in her fingers. “Please,” she whispered.
Strong as his will was, the needs of his body were stronger. With a groan, still angry and shocked beyond words, he began moving his hips forward and back, making her his in this moment as deeply and thoroughly as he could. Sarala wrapped her ankles around his thighs, mewling deliciously as his thrusts quickened. Her eyes closed.
“Look at me,” he ordered. “I want you to remember who you’re with.”
Moss green eyes met his again. “I’m with the one I want,” she moaned back at him.
She tightened, muffling her mouth against his shoulder as she cried out his name and shattered. His need for delicacy gone, and half swamped by anger, Charlemagne allowed his mind to shut down. He’d wanted her from the first moment he’d set eyes on her, and now in the tight slide of her body around his, he had her. He might not have been her first, but he was damne
d well going to be her last. Groaning, he pumped his hips harder and faster, again and again, burying his face against her cinnamon-scented neck as with a deep rush he came.
For a long time Sarala just tried to breathe. She held Charlemagne close around his muscular shoulders, not willing or able to let him go. If she did, he might not come back.
Still breathing hard himself, still exquisitely inside her, he lifted his head to look down at her. Gray eyes almost black in the dim candlelight, she thought she could still read his expression. Hurt, and anger.
“Was this all just a ploy so you could marry into the Griffin family?” he finally asked, his voice flat. “Because Melbourne thought it might be, and I told him that he was being ridiculous.”
“What do you think?” she asked in return.
He pulled backward, out of her and away from her. The distance physically hurt. “I think I don’t like being played for a fool,” he said, standing and going after his breeches.
She sat up. “What if I said the same thing? You’ve obviously been with at least one other woman. More than that, I’d wager. Did you love any of them? Do you love any of them? Do you have children?”
“What?” He slammed his clothes back onto the floor, then bent down to pick them up again. “What damned kind of questions are those? I’m a man. I’m supposed to—”
“According to whom?” she returned. Shay liked a good argument. This would simply have to be the best one she’d ever fought. Of course as a Griffin he couldn’t—wouldn’t—marry her. But being lovers—perhaps for a while they could have that. “And did I not say that I couldn’t marry you?”
“Yes, you did say that. And then you practically dragged me in here. Forgive me if I’m somewhat confused.”
“I thought this would make matters perfectly clear. Now you can ask Melbourne to extricate both of us from this betrothal.”
“So this was a lesson? A demonstration about how ill we suit one another?” He picked up her kadeez and threw it at her. “I thought I fit rather well.”
Tears stung at the back of her eyes, but she didn’t want him to see her cry. “You are only demonstrating that what I said is true. I’ve been with another man, and therefore I cannot marry a Griffin. I’ll find myself a lowly baron or some viscount’s nephew who would value my business acumen over my impurity and my sad bloodline.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.”
“There is no need to insult me, Shay. I understand the situation quite clearly.”
“Be quiet. I’m thinking.” He sat on the floor, apparently unwilling to join her on the bed again, and yanked on his breeches.
“Well, we both know I barely have my toe on the line where Society is concerned,” she said, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice.
“You don’t toe the line, you mean.”
“What?”
“The expression is ‘toe the line.’ It’s from boxing.”
“I don’t care where it’s from.” She stood to pull on her kadeez, noting that he paused his own dressing for a moment to sweep his eyes along her body. “Just be gentleman enough to help me dress, and then go away.”
“No.”
Her heart, already bruised, thudded hard. “You won’t help me dress?”
“I won’t go away.”
A tear overflowed her eye and ran down one cheek. “Now you’re confusing me.”
“I’m still confused, myself,” he grumbled. “Who was he?”
“That is none of your business, unless you first care to tell me the names of the women with whom you’ve been intimate.”
“I will do no such thing.”
“Then neither will I.”
“You,” Charlemagne muttered, jabbing a finger at her, “are very vexing, and I would appreciate if you would stop talking for a damned minute so I can think!”
“Why am I vexing to you?” she shot back, putting her hands on her hips and praying no on else could overhear their argument and break the door down. “You’ve been intimate with other women, so apparently you’re now immune to seduction. Why does any of this trouble or confuse you at all?”
“I am not immune to seduction, obviously,” he growled, shoving his arms through his waistcoat and buttoning it. He did it wrong, and had to unbutton and begin over again.
“Well, neither am I, idiot. And that’s why I led you in h—”
He stopped, facing her again. “What did you call me?”
She flung her arms up, very aware that his gaze had focused on her bare legs. At the moment she wasn’t above using anything and everything she had to keep him from leaving the room without at least helping her dress first. “Yes, I’ve been with a man besides you. A man. Once. When I was much younger. I’m not with him now, and I have no wish to be so. I am here, with you, and in case you haven’t noticed, I am trying to…” Her voice broke, and she cleared her throat, angry. “I am trying to let you know just how much I wanted to be with you, even if I couldn’t be so as your wife. If you can’t see that I actually did you a favor, then you are an idiot. I - D - I - O -T.”
Charlemagne strode up and grabbed her by the arms before she could even gasp. “Who was he?” he demanded again, shaking her.
“That doesn’t matter. I thought I loved him, and he was very persuasive. As for tonight, I thought that you would understand…wanting to be close to someone. If I was wrong, then I’ve made another very bad mis—”
He captured her mouth with his. Heat swept down her spine. The kissing, the heat, the desire—this was the easy part. It was the rest of Charlemagne Griffin that aggravated, infuriated, exhilarated, and troubled her. For a moment she gave in, kissing him back hungrily, then pushed away from him.
“You are a confounding woman,” he said, running a finger down her bare arm. “And perhaps I am an idiot. I’m not wrong very often, you know.”
“I know.”
“In the past days, however, you’ve already caused me to rethink some of my preconceptions about business, and about females. About you, in particular.”
She drew a shaky breath. “And?”
“And I would like our betrothal to continue.”
“But I’m not…pure.”
He tilted his head at her. “As you pointed out, neither am I.”
Not exactly a definitive declaration of love everlasting, but he’d never used that word with her, anyway. Nor had she said it to him. So it seemed they were back in their previous positions—with one exception. They’d made love, and she’d realized a few things now that she had something to compare her previous experience with. Some things that spoke very favorably about Charlemagne. Tonight, though, didn’t seem the time to have that particular discussion.
“What about your family?” she asked slowly.
“This is about us; not them,” he countered, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward him again. “But I need a day or two to think. And then we should talk.”
“Very well.”
As they gazed at each other, she wanted him to kiss her again. She wanted to be in his arms, and hear the passion in his voice. If her stupidity of years past hadn’t ruined his opinion of her, did he still want to—could they—actually marry?
Finally Shay cleared his throat. “Let’s get you dressed again,” he said, “unless you still wish to remain naked.”
Relief made her want to sag back onto the bed. “I suppose not,” she forced. “The evening’s a bit chill.”
He snorted, a smile touching his mouth for the first time since he’d peeled her clothes off. “I feel warm enough in your presence, Sarala.”
With his somewhat clumsy assistance she managed to get her hair back up, and the salwar kadeez on. The sari wrapping was something of a wreck, but she supposed unless an expert in traditional Indian clothing was in attendance, no one else would realize.
His cravat looked little better, but after a few attempts they fluffed it into a tolerable shape. When Shay draped the headpiece and veil over her head, she dre
w the ends of the fabric across her face and over the hook that held it in place.
“Wait a moment,” he said, pulling it loose again. Slowly and gently he kissed her mouth, warm and seductive and full of even more promises she hoped he would keep.
“Is this how you think?” she asked.
“Apparently.” He took a step backward, turning to blow out the candles in the wall sconces. “If I still want to marry you, would you still want to marry me?”
He’d asked. He hadn’t made a declaration, told her what they needed to do to keep up appearances or avoid a scandal. Warmth flowed into her fingers again. “I don’t know,” she answered slowly.
Shay nodded. “Then we both have some thinking to do.”
Chapter 17
“I’ve been thinking,” Sebastian said, leaning along the billiards table and taking his shot.
“You’re always thinking,” Charlemagne returned absently from his seat at the card table across the room. “I believe that’s why Zach’s so frightened of you.”
He turned another ledger page, looking for a secure location where he could move the silks and hold them until Emperor Jiaqing’s representatives were ready to load them on a ship and return them to China. After all this, he wasn’t about to risk the shipment going somewhere else it wasn’t supposed to be.
“It’s generally the groom’s family that holds an engagement ball,” the duke continued, moving around the table, cue in hand.
Charlemagne raised his hand. “We talked about this already. And I know how you feel about this business, Seb. I don’t expect you to host a party. I thought I would approach Aunt Tremaine.”
“You are not holding your engagement ball at Aunt Tremaine’s house. However I feel about the circumstances, you are my brother, and I will do what’s proper.”
“That’s an astonishingly enthusiastic endorsement.” With a slight grin he didn’t particularly feel, Charlemagne returned to the ledger. Melbourne had a small warehouse just to the south of them. It was a little more than a mile from the Thames and the nearest dock, but it was easily secured and protected.
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