by Amy Sandas
Leander’s stomach tightened.
Miss Littlefield was too innocent to understand the level of vice and debauchery that had invaded her home. She had no idea she was in danger of being devoured by the wickedness around her.
And Isabelle had intentionally placed her there. Why?
He looked toward Lyndon, who sat nearby, half listening to the conversation of those on the settee with a wavering gaze. “Is your husband aware that you’ve made his younger sister one of your pawns?”
The viscountess laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous, darling. I intend to make dear Desdemona the queen.”
Lifting his brow in subtle amusement, he replied, “You’ve never been one to share your crown.”
Isabelle’s eyes sparkled and her smile was almost intimate as she tipped her head toward him to whisper, “I’ve never had such a lucrative reason to do so.”
Leander carefully concealed his growing apprehension. There was nothing Isabelle enjoyed more than showing off her cleverness. Whatever had inspired her devious plan, she was dying to reveal it to someone. And she had never been able to keep anything a secret from Leander for long.
He slid her an encouraging smile. “Only you could find some way to profit in the desolate moorlands.”
Isabelle leaned toward him, her slim shoulder pressing intimately to his. “Not desolate at all, my dear brother.” Her voice dropped to a low murmur. “You might not believe it, but this rustic little estate sits on one of the richest iron ore deposits in the land.”
“While that’s all fascinating,” Leander noted with an air of distraction, “I don’t see what that has to do with Lyndon’s sister.”
“By some ridiculous arrangement, until she marries, all of the profits from this estate pass to our fair Desdemona,” Isabelle replied with an edge of annoyance in her tone. “John and I see nothing of it.”
Now that was interesting.
Leander sipped his wine as he considered the unexpected twist. His stepsister’s greed knew no bounds. Though she and Lyndon were wealthy beyond most, the idea of something she wanted being out of reach would motivate her to great lengths.
He glanced back to the settee.
The Tyrells had wandered off and Lord Rutledge had now taken a seat beside Miss Littlefield. Leander suddenly saw Isabelle’s plan quite clearly. “You intend to marry the girl off,” he noted dryly. “To Rutledge?”
The viscountess followed his gaze to the couple. She gave a subtle shrug and sighed. “He is aging and will want an heir soon.”
He was also a cad and a despot down to his black soul.
Everyone knew what the man was like with his women. Harsh, demanding, cold. Rutledge was a selfish and arrogant bastard who would crush Desdemona like a wildflower beneath his heel.
“I anticipate an offer any day now,” Isabelle gloated softly.
Leander bristled. “Why not take her to London, where she could have a greater selection to find a husband of her choosing?”
Isabelle waved her slim hand in a dismissive gesture. “It would cost too much to outfit the girl, and frankly, it would take too long. I’d prefer it done quickly and efficiently.” Then she laughed. “Besides, she’s far too old and...strange for a London debut. I cannot risk the embarrassment.”
“So, you’d feed her to your pet wolf instead,” Leander noted coolly.
“Rutledge is rich, handsome, and very worldly. She couldn’t do any better on her own, I assure you. She should be grateful I’ve taken an interest in her future.”
“The future of her profits, you mean.”
She looked up at him with a smile as she brushed her fingers over his hand. “The future of my profits, darling,” she whispered, then placed her finger across her lips, indicating her desire that he keep her little plan a secret, before she gave him a naughty wink and swept away.
Leander noted with a touch of relief that Miss Littlefield had departed, leaving Rutledge behind. And judging by the man’s dark countenance, Rutledge was none too pleased by her abandonment.
Smart girl, he thought with a twitch of his lips. She might not prove to be as easily manipulated as Isabelle had expected.
***
Returning from her early morning walk with Jack and Simon, Desdemona was anxious to dive back into her work. After five long years, the history of her family and its long connection to the area and the estate was nearly completed. If not for the London visitors, she might have already finished.
Upon entering her study, however, she came to an abrupt stop.
A fine, crackling lightning bolt of awareness spread across her nerves. Her blood hummed with visceral anticipation. And her heartrate sped to a reckless pace.
Count Vittori sat—or lounged, really—in the corner of her sofa. One of his ankles rested atop the opposite knee and Lady Anne’s journal sat open in one of his large hands while he ran the thumb of his other hand back and forth across his lower lip as he read.
Though she made no sound, he glanced up and his expression immediately shifted into a smile that was shamelessly sensual.
Acknowledging the effect that smile had on her body, Desdemona took a measured breath. “I thought I told you more than once that guests are not allowed in these rooms.”
His lips twisted ruefully. “You have.”
“Apparently, you do not like to follow the rules,” she noted, stating the obvious.
He lifted a brow and replied smoothly, “I would say you don’t like following them either.”
She pressed her lips together before acknowledging the truth of his words. “You’re right. I prefer to make my own rules.”
Vittori’s eyes flashed as he lowered his chin. His tousled black hair fell in charming disarray over his brow as he tilted his lips in a smile that triggered an elegant twist low in her belly. “I’ve come to return what I’d borrowed. Still in excellent condition, as promised.”
“It appears you’re still reading it.”
“Just going back over my favorite parts,” he replied in a tone as rich as the red wine he favored.
Doing her best to manage the sudden breathlessness she seemed to be suffering from, Desdemona redirected, “I am glad you enjoyed it. Lady Anne led an exceptional life and she was quite a wordsmith.”
He nodded as he rose to his feet. “She was indeed.” Meeting her gaze, he added earnestly, “Her fortitude was astounding. Despite every wretched turn life threw at her, the faith she had in her ability to overcome and find happiness never wavered.”
Desdemona was surprised by his observation. “She never allowed anyone else to define who she was, though they certainly tried.”
“Even those who claimed to love her most,” he added thoughtfully. The corner of his finely arched mouth curled in a way she’d never seen it do before. It was subtle and she couldn’t quite get a read on what it expressed. She didn’t think it was amusement or derision. It felt too intimate—too secretive—to be those things.
“Especially them,” Desdemona answered.
She’d never had anyone to talk to about the people she’d come to know so intimately through their own words. Being able to share Lady Anne’s story felt like a way to honor the woman and the tumultuous life she’d lived.
Though the conversation had reached a natural pause, she couldn’t seem to look away from his eyes as warmth spread through her, softening her bones and swirling in her stomach.
She didn’t recall coming farther into the room as they spoke, but she now stood directly in front of him. When he extended the diary, she took it automatically, noting how the warmth of his hand had infused the familiar worn leather before she added it to a stack of books on the table beside her.
When she lifted her gaze back to his, she saw something sinful flicker in the depths of his eyes. “Of course, there were also the lady’s—how shall I say this?—her deviant proclivities.”
Desdemona had known he would bring that up eventually, and surprisingly, she wanted to discuss that with him as well.
“Were they deviant, though?”
His eyebrows arched sharply.
With a glance at the other journals lining the bookcase behind her, Desdemona continued, “What I mean is that although not all of my ancestors discussed their intimate experiences with as much detail as Lady Anne, they certainly alluded to similar and sometimes quite dissimilar behaviors.”
Blue-grey eyes flashed. “Did they?” The two words exhibited a slightly roughened tone.
“They did.” Though she could feel her face warming at the highly inappropriate topic, Desdemona had been wondering about this issue for some time. She now had the perfect person with whom to discuss it. “In thinking of just how varied and...creative their activities had been, it seems there is very little that should be considered deviant when it comes to someone’s preferences in the bedroom.”
“An intriguing deduction,” he murmured thickly. “In your extensive research, did nothing shock you at all?”
Desdemona noticed the darkening of the ring around his light eyes and how it made her belly tighten. “The only practice that gave me pause was in regard to a lord who required an element of violence to attain pleasurable relief.”
The count nodded slowly as though giving himself time to answer. “Some people do experience their pleasure through pain. It can be quite enjoyable if all parties involved are informed on what to expect and are agreeable. There are ways to make sure the play does not go too far.”
There was something in the heavy tone of his explanation that drew a deep, tingling fire to the surface of her skin. On impulse, she asked, “Do you enjoy pain with your pleasure?”
A disconcerting light blazed in his eyes and she realized she had crossed a social boundary with the intrusive question. She should take it back, but before she could, he dipped his chin and replied, “On occasion.”
A pulse of heat made her squeeze her thighs together. She should have known he would answer. And that his answer would affect her so. “Lady Anne discovered that she enjoyed having her lovers artfully bind her with rope.” She paused, wondering at her own brazenness. “Have you ever...restricted your lovers in such a way?”
The sudden intense carnality of his smile stalled her breath. “It would be more revealing to ask what I haven’t done, tesoro mio,” he whispered darkly.
Her response was immediate. “What haven’t you done?”
“Not much,” he answered.
Desdemona wondered how her legs still supported her, they’d gone so weak in reaction to the raw timbre of his voice.
Then Count Vittori glanced down—thick black lashes swept over the intensity of his gaze—abruptly breaking the connection.
She’d gone too far and made things awkward. And just when she’d felt like she was figuring something out. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried into something so personal. I occasionally forget myself,” she muttered.
He abruptly reclaimed her gaze. “Never apologize for speaking plainly to me,” he stated firmly. “I am far too familiar with people who conceal their true thoughts behind clever innuendo and double entendre. Your open curiosity is refreshing and...invigorating.”
Sinful heat still smoldered in his eyes, but there was something else as well. Expertly hidden within the sensual confidence and overt virility was a deep shadow of wariness.
The wariness surprised her and caused a sudden constriction around her heart. “What worries you, my lord?” she asked in a heavy murmur.
The curl at the corner of his mouth was rueful. “Your innocence worries me.”
Desdemona stiffened at his tone. One thing she did not like was being underestimated. “Perhaps I’m not as innocent as you believe.”
His laugh was a velvety rumble of sound that teased her low belly. “Yes, you are.”
“You should not mistake a lack of experience with naivete.”
At her insistence, the wariness only became more prominent in his expression.
He stepped toward her, reducing the space between them to a few bare inches. Warmth emanated from his solid male body as his scent drifted over her—a heady blend of red wine, clove, and black amber. She liked how it blended with the smell of old books and fresh ink. And she was fairly certain she liked the way he made her feel when he looked down at her with quiet concern as he was now.
“Allow me to offer a warning,” he said gruffly.
“What kind of warning?”
He rolled his lips in against the tip of his tongue to moisten them before speaking. Watching the innately sensual action had Desdemona’s insides lifting on a sigh.
“There are people in this house who may not have your best interests at heart.”
Her inhale was deep and heavy. Tipping her head to the side, she replied, “Are you referring to my brother, who cannot manage to lift his head from his drink long enough to notice I am in the room? Or Lady Lyndon, perhaps, who seems intent upon drowning me in effusive compliments?” She tilted her lips in a half smile. “Or maybe you’re speaking of their lovely guests, who at best seem to consider me an amusing little pet?”
His frown was almost endearing. “You make light of it, but you should not underestimate these people. Their intentions are rarely pure.”
She claimed his gaze more fully. “And what of you, my lord? What are your intentions?”
A dangerous light flashed in his eyes, like lightning across a cloudy sky. A sound rolled, rich and heady, from the back of his throat as he lowered his head toward hers. “You should trust me least of all.”
His words stimulated her, excited her, and made her feel wonderfully breathless.
Her voice was just above a whisper when she replied, “You have failed to consider, my lord, that I might not trust any of you.”
“Promise me you’ll be careful,” he murmured.
“That is a rather subjective request. What is careful for one may not be for another,” she replied.
His lips parted as if to say something, but he held the words back with a bite of his lower lip.
There was so much heat in the air around them. And within her, a fire that had long lain dormant flared to full life. It was buffeted by the winds of quiet desperation, loneliness, and daring, which only made the flames rise higher.
Lifting his hand, he ran his knuckles over the curve of her cheek. The fire in Desdemona’s core swirled in a wild dance, spreading tingling heat to every extremity and down between her legs. She drew a swift breath and held it.
As his fingers drifted toward her chin, his gaze fell to her mouth. Hunger blazed in his eyes as he gently ran his thumb over her lower lip—the same thumb he’d run over his own lip only moments ago. “Maybe you are not the one at risk after all,” he murmured darkly. His eyes found hers and the warmth of his breath caressed her lips as he whispered, “I am starting to suspect you are far more dangerous to me than I could ever be to you.”
Chapter Nine
Leander thought he knew all there was to know about lust—the insatiable craving for pleasure.
But Desdemona, with her calmly defiant gaze and guileless curiosity, made him hunger in a way he never had before.
When he’d skimmed the pad of his thumb over her lower lip and had seen the flare of desire in her gaze, all he wanted to do was fall to his knees and worship her. Despite what she claimed about her innocence, the wicked images that filled his mind at that moment would have shocked her to her toes.
Just a kiss.
He could claim her mouth, just for a moment or two—share her breath, taste the sweetness of her tongue. Then he’d walk away—leave her untouched. Untainted.
He slipped his hand beneath the heavy fall of her hair to cup the back of her neck. Her skin was so warm and soft. And her breath, as it spread across his throat, teased at his pulse. Looking into her languid gaze, Leander was forced to acknowledge the tightness in his chest. It was a sensation he’d never felt before and had never wanted to.
But this woman drew it out too easily. The urge to protect. The desire
to claim. The longing to keep...
He held her like that for a long moment, his fingertip pressed to the pulse beneath her ear, his focus intent upon her eyes as they darkened with rich desire. She was waiting. Wanting. He could see it. He could feel it.
But that odd tightness in his chest held him immobile. For once, he held a woman with the fire of lust in his blood and he did not know how the scenario would play out. He liked to plan his seductions to the smallest detail, but he had nothing at all planned when it came to this woman. There was no guile in her. She acted on instinct alone. And that was terrifying.
His fingers tensed around her neck and her lips parted on a quick inhale as her attention dropped to his lips. “It’s all right,” she whispered softly. “I’ll do it.”
Then she rose up onto her toes. The thick fringe of her lashes swept over her dark gaze and she pressed her mouth to his.
In the past several days, Leander had often and shamelessly imagined what her lips might feel like, what she’d taste like. He’d imagined her kiss would be like honey—warm and sweet. Or gently innocent like the hardy but dainty wildflowers that grew nestled in the bristling grass of the moors.
There was no way he could have anticipated the truth of it.
When her mouth touched his, he felt a rush not unlike the feeling of electricity one senses in the air before a lightning storm or the cleansing rush of wind that precedes the rain. The intensity of it arced through him, clearing his mind of all but her.
And then she made a soft, husky sound in her throat and closed the distance between them, pressing herself to him.
Her warmth and softness demanded exploration. He wrapped an arm securely around her waist and drew her hips tight to his. There was no disguising his hardening erection pressing firm to her belly, but he didn’t want to. He needed her to know how he wanted her, needed her to understand that this kiss was not a tepid country courtship ritual. It was real and demanding. And he was nearly lost to it already.
