Worth Any Price bsr-3

by Lisa Kleypas

"Yes, I could," he said evenly.

  "Then in return for your protection and financial support, I would be willing to be your mistress. I would sign a legally binding contract to that effect. I think that would be enough to keep Lord Radnor at bay-and then I would no longer have to stay in hiding."

  His mistress. Nick had never anticipated that she would be willing to lower herself that way. However, it seemed that Lottie was ultimately a pragmatist, recognizing when she could not afford to keep her principles.

  "You'll let me bed you in return for my money and protection," he said, as if the wordmistress required definition. He threw a cautious glance at her. "You will live with me, and accompany me in public, regardless of the shame it causes you. Is that what you're saying?"

  Her cheeks turned bright red, but she did not look away from him. "Yes."

  Desire flooded every part of his body with primal heat. The realization that he was going to have her, that she would give herself to him willingly, made him light-headed. His mistress...but that wasn't enough. He needed more of her. All of her.

  Deliberately he went to the settee, a somewhat utilitarian piece upholstered in stiff burgundy leather, and he sat with his legs spread. He let his gaze travel over her with pure sexual appraisal. "Before I agree to anything, I want a sample of what you're offering."

  She stiffened. "I think you've sampled quite enough already."

  "You're referring to our interlude in the woods this evening?" He made his voice very soft, while his heart pounded violently in his chest. "That was nothing, Lottie. I want more than a few innocent kisses from you. Keeping a mistress can be an expensive proposition-you'll have to prove that you're worth it."

  She came to him slowly, her slim form silhouetted in the firelight. Clearly she knew that he was playing some kind of game with her, but she hadn't yet realized what the stakes were. "What do you want from me?" she asked softly.

  What he'd had from Gemma. No, more than Gemma had ever given him. He wanted someone to belong to him. To care about him. To need him in some way. He didn't know if that was possible...but he was willing to gamble everything on Lottie. She was his only chance.

  "I'll show you." Nick reached out and caught her wrist, pulling until she half-sat, half-toppled beside him. Sliding a hand behind the nape of her neck, he bent over her, finding her pulse with the tip of his tongue. At the same time, he brought her hand to his crotch, cupping her slender fingers around the straining shape of his erection. She stiffened and gasped, suddenly leaning against his chest as if her strength had deserted her. Gently he drew her hand up the length of his shaft, to the round head that pushed impatiently against the taut broadcloth.

  A ragged sound escaped him, and he tugged at her blouse, filled with gratitude to whoever had designed a garment that made a woman's body so mercifully accessible. Her exposed breasts gleamed in the firelight, their tips soft and pale pink. Lottie turned her face to the side, her eyes tightly closed. Pulling her farther over his lap, Nick cradled her in one arm, while her bottom rested on the rigid mound of his erection. His calloused fingers slipped beneath one bare breast, lifting the silken weight to position her for the slow descent of his mouth. A quiver went through her as he opened his lips over the tender nipple, stroking until it strained against his tongue. Lottie's hands half-raised as if to push him away, but suddenly her fingers clutched around the lapels of his coat, and she let out a whimper of pleasure. The sound electrified him. He used his tongue to trace circles around the stiffening nipple, making her writhe like a cat in his arms.

  While he continued to suckle and tease her breasts, he slid his hand beneath her skirts, finding the plain hem of her drawers and the thick cotton garter that fastened her stockings. Becoming aware of the hand that intruded beneath her skirts, Lottie clenched her legs together, a crimson blush spreading over her face and breasts. He caressed her over the crumpled linen, sliding his palm over her hip and stomach, then moving to the soft curls lower down.

  "Don't," she said, her eyes still closed.

  Nick kissed the pink curve of her throat and the fine edge of her jaw. Her skin was so thin and satiny that it was almost translucent. He wanted to kiss her from head to toe. "That's not how a mistress talks," he whispered. "Are you reneging on your offer, Lottie?"

  She shook her head, unable to speak as his palm pressed on her mound.

  "Then spread your legs."

  She complied jerkily, her thighs parting, her head falling back against his supportive arm. He caressed her over the fragile fabric, gently rubbing the hot furrow until the linen became damp beneath his fingers. He was aroused by her efforts to stay quiet and still, her face turning scarlet, her legs stiffening as he teased her intimately. Finally she moaned and clutched at his wrist imploringly.

  "That's enough," she gasped.

  His cock pulsed violently beneath her. "Is it?" he whispered, sliding his fingers into the open slit of her drawers. "I think you want more."

  Her body jerked in his lap as he found softly matted hair...plump silken flesh...the wet entrance to her body. Kissing the arch of her throat, Nick played with the velvety thicket. "Sweet little curls," he breathed near Lottie's ear. "What color are they, I wonder? Blond, like the hair on your head? Or darker?"

  Shocked by the question, Lottie stared at him with an unfocused gaze.

  "It's all right," he said, opening the soft cleft. "I'll find out for myself...later."

  She arched as he found the tender peak that had been hidden by the protective folds. "Oh...oh, God-"

  "Shhhh." He nipped the lobe of her ear. "You don't want Westcliff to hear, do you?"

  "Stop that," she said shakily.

  But nothing would stop him now. He caressed her skillfully, circling the point of delicate fire. Her buttocks lifted away from the hard length of his erection as her hips strained toward his hand. He brushed the swollen bud with the calloused tip of his thumb and slid his middle finger inside her, until it was completely submerged in the luscious channel.

  Lottie's breath shortened, and her thighs clamped around his hand as he thrust and withdrew his finger in an easy rhythm. He felt her inner muscles tauten as she labored and twisted, fighting instinctively for release from the excruciating tension. Nick lowered his head to her breasts once more. The tips were taut and rosy now, and he blew against one of them softly before drawing it into his mouth. With his finger sunk inside her, and her nipple throbbing against his tongue, he experienced a triumph he had never known before.

  Lottie struggled helplessly as climax remained elusive, a moan of frustration escaping her. Withdrawing his finger from the sweet depths of her body, Nick settled his damp hand on her taut stomach, rubbing in soothing circles. "I'll take care of you later," he murmured. "I promise."

  Lottie moaned again, arching desperately against his hand. He knew what she wanted, and he longed to give it to her. His nostrils flared as he detected the heady perfume of female desire. Heat pumped through him, and he nearly lost all self-control as he thought of burying his face between her thighs, plunging his tongue inside her...

  He shuddered as he forced himself to pull her skirts down, covering the sweet flesh he craved. Westcliff was waiting nearby, and now was not the time or place to indulge himself further. Later there would be time to make love to Lottie at his leisure. Patience, he counseled himself, taking a few steadying breaths.

  Lottie crawled from his arms and huddled at the opposite end of the settee. She was gorgeously tousled, her cheeks dewy and deeply flushed in the flickering light. Fumbling with her bodice, she covered her breasts.

  Their gazes met, hers bright with shame, his frankly calculating. And then Nick went in for the kill. "I do want you," he said. "In fact, I would probably stoop at nothing to get you. But I don't want you as a mistress. I want full, irrevocable ownership. Everything that you would have given to Radnor, or Westcliff."

  Realizing what he meant, Lottie stared at him as if he were a lunatic. It took a full half-minute for her to recov
er enough to speak. "Do you mean marriage? What difference would there be between marrying you or Lord Radnor?"

  "The difference is that I'm letting you choose."

  "Why would you be willing to shackle yourself to me for a lifetime?"

  The truth was something that Nick could never admit to her. "Because I want the convenience of a wife," he lied. "And you'll do as well as any other woman."

  She sucked in a breath of outrage.

  "Make your choice," Nick advised. "You can keep running, or you can become someone's wife. Mine or Radnor's."

  She gave him another one of those long, searching stares that made the hair on the back of his neck rise. Damn, he hated it when she did that. Once again he could not blink or look away, and she appeared to read his thoughts in spite of his will to conceal them.

  "Yours," she said stiffly. "I'll be yours."

  And he let out a slow, nearly imperceptible sigh of relief.

  Lottie struggled from his lap and straightened her clothes. She went to pour herself some brandy from the crystal decanter at the mahogany sideboard. She was dizzy, and her knees felt like jelly, which were good indications that more spirits were the last thing she needed. Moreover, she was still technically Lord Westcliff's servant, and no one in such a position would ever think of helping herself to some of the master's liquor. On the other hand, such distinctions had become blurred after the stunning revelations of the evening. She was bemused by the realization that she had received two marriage proposals in one night from vastly different men.

  And the things that Nick Gentry had just done to her-no, she would not think about that now, while her body still throbbed with the echoes of shameful pleasure. Filling the glass liberally, Lottie grimaced and gulped the fine vintage.

  Gentry came to her, taking the glass after she had downed half its contents. "In a minute you're going to be as drunk as a wheelbarrow."

  "Does it matter?" she asked hoarsely, watching as he finished the brandy for her.

  "I suppose not." As she swayed before him, he set aside the empty snifter and caught her waist in his hands. A self-mocking smile touched his lips. "God knows any woman would need to fortify herself after agreeing to become my wife."

  A demanding thump rattled the door, and Lord Westcliff entered the room. His sharp gaze settled on the two of them standing so close together, and one thick brow arched quizzically.

  Gentry's hands tightened on Lottie's waist as she tried to step away from him. "You may be the first to congratulate us," he told the earl, in a nasty parody of a gentlemanly announcement. "Miss Howard has done me the honor of bestowing her hand on me."

  Lord Westcliff's eyes narrowed as he glanced at Lottie. "That is the third option?"

  "As it turns out," she said unsteadily, "yes."

  Lottie knew that the earl did not understand why she would be willing to make a bargain with the devil. Returning his gaze, she begged him silently not to request an explanation, as she would be unable to account for her reasons. She was tired of hiding, worrying, and being afraid. Nick Gentry had offered her sanctuary. He was unprincipled, callous, and worldly-exactly the kind of man who could protect her from Radnor. But all of that would not have been sufficient to compel her to marry him. One other factor had made the difference-her awareness that Gentry felt something for her. He was not able to hide it despite his efforts to the contrary. And against all better judgment, she wanted him. Or at least, she wanted the man he had pretended to be...the one who had stared at her with such desperate intensity as they'd stood by the wishing well...the one who had kissed her in the forest and whispered that he needed her.

  Frowning, the earl came forward and reached for her. "I want a word with you, Lottie."

  She nodded obediently, out of long-standing habit. "Yes, sir." When Gentry did not release her, she shot him a challenging gaze. "I haven't married you yet," she said beneath her breath. "Let me go."

  His hands slid from her waist. Lottie went to the earl, who took her elbow in a light grasp and drew her with him to the corner. His respectful touch was strikingly different from Gentry's rampant possessiveness.

  Lord Westcliff looked down at her, a lock of dark hair tumbling over his broad forehead. "Lottie," he said quietly, "you can't make such a decision without understanding more about the man you're giving yourself to. Do not be deceived by the fact that Gentry is a Bow Street runner. No doubt you think his profession imparts a certain sense of honor, even heroism. In Nick Gentry's case, the opposite is true. He is, and always has been, a figure of public controversy."

  "In what way?" Lottie asked, glancing at the dark figure on the other side of the room. Gentry was drinking another brandy, pretending to inspect a row of books. The sullen curve of his mouth made it clear that he knew perfectly well what Westcliff was telling her.

  "Gentry has only been a runner for the past two or three years. Before that, he was a crime lord masquerading as a private thief-taker. He ran an infamous corporation of thieves and was arrested numerous times for fraud, thievery, receivership, and manufacturing evidence. I can guarantee that he is acquainted with every criminal of note in England. Despite his apparent reformation, there are many who believe that he still has illicit dealings with many of his former cohorts in the underworld. He is not to be trusted, Lottie."

  She tried to show no reaction to the information, but she was inwardly stunned. Glancing around Westcliff's broad shoulder, she viewed the Bow Street runner's menacing form as he lounged in the darkest corner of the study. He seemed more comfortable in the shadows, his eyes gleaming like a cat's. How could a man only in his late twenties have had such a varied career? Crime lord, thief-taker...what in God's name was he?

  "Miss Howard...Lottie..." The earl recaptured her attention with a quiet murmur. "You must consider my proposal once more. I believe the arrangement would benefit us both. I give you my word that I would be a kind husband, and that you would want for nothing-"

  "My lord," she interrupted earnestly, "I hope you will not regard my refusal as an indication of anything other than my great respect for you. You are the most honorable man I have ever known-and that is why I would never consign you to a loveless marriage. You cannot deny, my lord, that I would not be your first choice, were you seeking a wife. And if I did you the injustice of accepting your offer, we would both regret it someday. Mr. Gentry and I are far more suited to each other, as neither of us will regard it as a true marriage, but rather as a business transaction in which..." Her cheeks burned as she forced herself to finish. "In which one service is exchanged for another."

  Westcliff's face was grim. "You're not cynical or hardened enough to tolerate such an arrangement."

  "Unfortunately, my lord, I am indeed that hardened. Because of Lord Radnor, I've never had the hopes and dreams that many other women do. I've never expected to be happy in marriage."

  "You still deserve better than this," he insisted.

  She smiled without humor. "Do you think so? I'm not so certain." Breaking away from him, Lottie strode to the center of the study and stared at Gentry expectantly. She made her manner brisk. "When shall we leave?"

  Gentry emerged from the corner. She saw from the flicker in his eyes that he had half-expected her to change her mind after speaking with Westcliff. Now that her choice had been reaffirmed, there was no turning back.

  "Now," he said softly.

  Her lips parted in the beginnings of an objection. Gentry intended to sweep her away without allowing any opportunity to say good-bye to anyone in the household, not even Lady Westcliff. On the other hand, it would be easier for her to simply disappear without having to explain anything to anyone. "Isn't it rather dangerous to travel at night?" she asked, then quickly answered her own question. "Never mind. If we met with a highwayman, I would probably be safer with him than you."

  Gentry grinned suddenly. "You may be right."

  His momentary amusement was wiped away by Lord Westcliff's crisp announcement. "If I cannot change Miss Howa
rd's mind, I will at least require proof that the ceremony is legal. I will also demand evidence that she will be satisfactorily provided for."

  Lottie realized that in all her considerations, she had actually not given a thought as to what kind of life she would have with Gentry. Good Lord. What kind of a living did a Bow Street runner earn? No doubt his salary was minimal, but surely with private commissions, he would make enough to live in a decent style. She did not require much-a room or two in a safe area of London would be sufficient.

  "I'll be damned if I have to account for my ability to provide for my own wife," Gentry said. "All you need to know is that she won't starve, and she'll have a roof over her head."

  The journey to London would last approximately twelve hours, which meant they would travel through the night and arrive in early afternoon. Lottie rested against the rich brown velvet upholstery of Gentry's well-appointed vehicle. Once they were on their way, Gentry moved to extinguish the small carriage lamp that illuminated the interior. "Do you want to sleep?" he asked. "It's a long time until morning."

  Lottie shook her head. Despite her weariness, she was too agitated to relax.

  Shrugging, Gentry left the lamp burning. He rested one of his legs on the upholstery, grimacing slightly. Clearly it was uncomfortable for a man of his size to be confined in a relatively small area.

  "Is this yours?" Lottie asked. "Or did you hire it as part of your deception?"

  Realizing that she referred to the carriage, he gave her a mocking smile. "It's mine."

  "I wouldn't have thought a professional man could afford such a vehicle."

  The runner played idly with the fringed edge of the little window curtain nearby. "My work requires frequent travel. I prefer to do it in comfort."

  "Do you often use an assumed name when you go about your investigations?"

  He shook his head. "Most of the time there is no need."

  "I wonder that you didn't choose a better disguise," she said. "One that could not be disproved so easily. It did not take long for Lord Westcliff to discover that there is no Viscount Sydney."