Darius was slightly ashamed now of his youthful ferocity, but only slightly. Cyrus had done much worse in the intervening years for which he remained untouched, no matter how hard Darius’s fists clenched.
“Please let me go,” she said in a tone far too calm. It was as if she found herself in a man’s arms at knifepoint on a regular basis. Prudence Thorne never ceased to surprise him.
She was fitted up against him, her back to his front, her nightgown too thin to blunt her womanly curves. Now that she was liberated from her black dress, Darius discovered her figure wasn’t quite so unexceptional. Her rounded arse awakened his cock instantly. He’d always been fond of a woman’s derriere, and until this evening, Prudence Thorne’s had been concealed by miles of black fabric. As far as he could tell, her bottom was soft, lush, and eminently desirable.
He released her with reluctance. “What are you doing in my room?”
Her cheeks were stained crimson, and she refused to meet his eyes. “I—I was looking for another book.”
Darius stared pointedly at her empty hands.
“I couldn’t find one.”
“There must be hundreds of books on Carmela’s shelves. She was very well read.”
Pru lifted her chin. “I’m sure she did any number of things well.”
Darius quirked a grin. “So Uncle Algy said. He was a regular correspondent. I always looked forward to his letters when I picked up his missives at my post restante.”
Pru rubbed at her neck with a delicate finger. The blade had come nowhere near it, but at the moment Darius wanted to replace her finger with his own. He would trace a line beneath the starchy ruffles at her throat to—
“Are you always armed?”
Darius refocused and hid his knife away. “Yes. Believe it or not, in my line of work, one comes upon ruffians of uncertain character. The antiquities field is replete with thieves and murderers and worse.”
“What could be worse than a murderer?”
“You don’t want to know. The dangers and the inconvenience of travel are only two of the reasons I’m happy to be home.”
“I would think travel would be fascinating.”
“Spoken like a girl who’s spent her whole life in Bath with an invalid. Believe me, one can endure only so much sand in one’s cracks before the sensation ceases to be amusing.”
Pru glared at him.
“I mean the sand betwixt my toes, Mrs. Thorne. What did you think I meant?”
She huffed—she did indignation so very well. “You are impossible.”
“Very likely.” He took a footstep closer, so close he felt her warm breath between them. “Now, tell me—did you return my dildo?”
Pru’s lovely mouth opened, but not even a squeak managed to come out.
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice? I do hope you washed it before you placed it back in its receptacle.”
“I—oh!”
Her cheeks burned, her eyes glittered, but she was still robbed of speech. She stared up at him, frozen to the hallway carpet.
“I am not judging you,” Darius said reasonably. “I hope you found it efficacious in relieving your tension.”
“I am not tense! And I didn’t—it didn’t—blast you, Darius Shaw!”
“It didn’t work at all? I didn’t think it was too large to accommodate the average gentlewoman easily, but perhaps I miscalculated.”
Pru abandoned all pretense but not her pugnaciousness. “I hope you didn’t pay too much money for it. It was useless.”
Ah. “Perhaps you didn’t utilize it in the right way.”
“I’m sure I know where such a thing goes. I was married, you know.”
“And the more I hear about your late husband, the less I think of him. Why would he leave a luscious morsel like you alone and seek comfort anywhere else? He must have been remarkably stupid.”
Pru didn’t seem to have a retort for his backhanded compliment. She worried her lower lip with a tooth and continued to blush brilliantly. Darius leaned in for the kill.
“I would be happy to demonstrate the proper use of the ivory instrument, if only to assure myself that its purchase was not foolhardy. And if I gave you some little pleasure in the process, it will repay you for the hours you have spent helping me.”
“P-pardon?”
Darius watched as she twisted the end of her golden-brown braid. If he was lucky, in a few moments he would free her shimmering hair and relieve her of the night rail that covered her from chin to toe. It was thoughtful of her to creep around his house without a wrapper and slippers—it made his job so much easier. He stilled her twirling hand, covering the ruby ring. A spark of heat spread to his palm—surely the stones should be cold and hard. But there was no time to examine the peculiar sensation in his hand when other parts of him were screaming for priority.
But not tonight. Tonight was Pru’s. It was the least he could do.
“Come, Pru. You have admitted your curiosity but seem uneasy at actually engaging in an affaire with me. Very well. I can supply the necessary expertise in assuring that you reach feminine satisfaction.”
“I will not sleep with you!”
“My dear, very little sleeping will be involved. But I swear not to take my own pleasure. Tonight shall be all about you—your needs, your desires. My little ivory friend can probably provide them nearly as well as I can.” His fingers slipped into the tangle of hair, and he patiently worked the strands apart. Pru swayed, her eyes wide. Darius felt a bit like an Indian snake charmer—she was rising to his tune, but he’d better catch her before she bit him. He drew her closer to his chest and brushed his lips across her pale forehead.
“Then, when you are alone in your bed at Bath for the next three or four decades, you will be able to replicate what I’ll teach you tonight. You should be able to do without men quite permanently right into old age if you don’t care to take a lover. ”
“I don’t—you would—I can’t,” she mumbled into his shirt.
He chucked her stubborn chin. “Of course you can. You should. You owe it to yourself, really. There’s no shame in self-gratification. Your eyes will not cross and your palm will not grow hairy. If all those old wives’ tales were true, every gentleman in the ton would be afflicted. Most ladies, too.”
She pulled back and he let her go. “I don’t believe you.”
“About the hair or the other?”
She dropped her lashes, too embarrassed to speak.
“It’s true, Pru. Women have the same requirements as men. If your mother told you otherwise, she was lying. Have you never felt the urge to touch yourself?”
“Never. Well, hardly ever,” Pru amended.
“You’ve gone all this time as a widow practicing self-denial? There have been no men in your life?”
She shook her head. He cupped her cheek—it was warm, soft, white as milk in the flickering hall light. “That’s a pity. I think it’s time for a change.”
“Do you?” she whispered.
“I do.”
Darius felt a shiver shoot down his spine. As he recalled, a gentleman spoke those two words in a wedding ceremony. Well, he was certainly not going to marry Prudence Thorne or anyone if he could help it. He was looking for a quiet, restful life now. A wife like Prudence Thorne could not be expected to keep her thoughts and opinions to herself—she was the least quiet, restful female he’d ever met. He’d have been better bringing Sheikh Mahmoud’s slave girl Fairuza to London if he wanted obedience.
And if he had, he would not be suffering quite so in his nether regions as he breathed. Pru smelled like a garden of damask roses in the afternoon sun. A man could stand over her hair and bury himself in the wavy strands, drugging himself in her scent. Darius wondered where else the rose scent would pervade his senses—the crook of her arm? The sweet indentation of her navel? Between her white thighs? He groaned, just a little. “Are you all right?”
“Absolutely. Never been better. So what do you say, Pru? I promise I
will not place you in harm’s way. Are you ready for a taste of Paradise?”
Chapter Six
Was she ready? She’d been ready since she’d opened the door to the brute, so jealous of her cousin when she thought the man standing before her was Cyrus Shaw she could barely see straight.
No, that wasn’t right. She had seen—every tall, delicious inch of him, the dark ruffled hair, the faint stubble at his jaw, the travel-worn, sea-scented clothes. His eyes, green jasper with flecks of gold dust. The curl of his full lip when he thought she was his uncle’s avaricious courtesan.
He had cleaned up well, although at this hour his jaw was shadowed again. His disorderly dark hair had been brushed back, revealing surprising sun streaks at his temple. His jacket fit him like Weston had sewn it to his body, and his inexpressibles—well, best not to look there. He had promised that he would not take true advantage of her, which was in some respects disappointing. But since she had so little experience with sin, perhaps it was best to indulge in smallish increments. “Yes,” she said faintly.
“Excellent.” He extended a brown hand—the very one that had held the knife to her—and she placed hers in it without trembling too badly.
He led her back into the bedroom, a hideous room so pink it must resemble the insides of one’s stomach. Her own was fluttering in nervousness, and there did not seem to be a drop of saliva at all in her mouth. As if he could hear her thoughts, he murmured, “I was going to have some brandy. Will you join me?”
Pru did not drink strong spirits, but now seemed a good time to start. Wordlessly, she nodded her head. Darius dropped her hand and went to a corner cupboard. Sitting on the shelf was a bottle of amber liquid and an odd assortment of glasses. He selected two and splashed the liquor into them with a generous hand.
“Here.” He clinked his glass toward hers. “To new experiences.”
“Um,” Pru said, feeling like a fool. She took a sip, scorching her tongue in the process. “People drink this?” she asked after sputtering a minute.
“I allow as this is not the finest representative of its kind. You know my financial circumstances,” Darius said, deliberately taking a large swallow from his own glass. “It’s not too bad. I’ve had worse.”
Pru could not imagine anything more vile, unless it were camel urine. She placed the drink down on one of the few available surfaces. She had forgotten she was surrounded by perversion everywhere she looked, so she closed her eyes. “Let’s get on with it.”
“Does the room disturb you?”
“You know it does.”
“I have a solution. Lie down on the bed, Pru.”
She stumbled toward the bed, a massive affair covered with what seemed to be the skins of one hundred white French poodles. The fleece was soft to the touch and surely not made of dog despite her fanciful description. She caught sight of herself in the mirror on the ceiling—white face, white nightgown on white fur, and shut her eyes again. She flinched when Darius lifted her head and fastened a blindfold over her eyes.
Starch and sandalwood. He must have taken the cravat that had been draped over his arm and tied it around her head. It was better she could not see what was about to happen, wasn’t it?
She tried to relax, but every nerve in her body decided to turn Scottish and dance the Highland Fling. The bed dipped as Darius settled next to her. Gently, he unclenched her hands from her stomach and laid them at her sides. She felt his rough thumb at her wrist, like one of Mama’s doctors. Her pulse raced as he stroked her arm, pulling up the sleeve of her night rail to her elbow. His fingertip followed her vein, and she swore she felt her blood leap to meet it.
Pru felt hot suddenly, the weight of her nightgown nearly unsupportable. Thank goodness Darius began to unbutton the tiny pearls at her throat, pushing the ruffles from her chin. When she was exposed, his hand lightly splayed upon her upper chest; for one brief moment Pru thought about asking him to touch her a bit lower.
But then he would discover her insignificant breasts, although at present they seemed bursting, the nipples bristling and hard. How embarrassing. Could he tell the effect he had upon her already? He had just touched her arm and her throat, for heaven’s sake. What would happen when he—
Oh. She felt his warm brandied breath on her cheek. The stuff may have tasted vile, but the scent was rather pleasant. He cradled her chin.
“May I kiss you?”
Pru swallowed. “Is it necessary?”
Darius chuckled. “I believe so, yes.”
“All right.”
She wondered if his eyes were closed, whether his mussed hair fell forward across his brow as he bent to her. She licked her lips and felt the shock of his tongue on hers. She wasn’t even ready for him! Her mouth was still open! But he didn’t seem to mind, merely covering her lips with his and gently pushing her tongue back where it belonged.
But his tongue—it followed hers right back into the cavern of her mouth and licked her. Everywhere. So resolute in its exploration she forgot to object and simply held herself open so he could continue. Did she remember a kiss that was ever like this? Perhaps Charles had done just such a thing and she had put it out of her mind. But somehow it seemed extremely foolish and unproductive to think of Charles, so Pru kissed Darius back.
She did not know what she was doing, but what did it matter? The brandy on his tongue was sweeter than hers in the glass, and she threw herself into the kiss with greedy enthusiasm. Her fingers were somehow in his slippery dark (sun-streaked!) hair and smoothing down the fabric of his jacket. He still wore his boots. The French poodle blanket would get dirty. He was wearing far too many clothes, but it would not be part of their bargain for her to ask him to remove them.
He tugged at the hem of her nightgown, and Pru felt the night air at her thighs, followed by one work-roughened hand. She didn’t mind the odd friction of it. Somehow it made her feel more alive—she’d had nothing against her skin but silk and satin and the finest lawn, but Darius’s hand was so much better. How he could kiss her and manage to see to other parts of her body was quite wonderful. He stroked her legs until she couldn’t help but spread them apart ever so slightly. Encouraged, he moved up to her center and toyed with the golden curls at her juncture. He seemed to be petting her, and she very much wanted him to do something else.
He broke the kiss. “Am I distressing you?”
“No! Yes.” Pru was glad she couldn’t see his face—he probably was looking at her as if she was a lunatic. “Aren’t you going to use the thing?”
“Ah. Of course. The thing.”
She could hear the mockery in his voice. “The d-dildo. The penis.”
“I know what thing you meant, Pru. But you’re not ready for it. Not yet.”
Not ready? The lower part of her body was on fire. But he probably knew best, versed as he was in the mysteries of the exotic East and surrounded by the prurient artifacts of his trade. His lips descended again and she made do parrying with his tongue while his finger finally—finally—slipped into her folds.
She was mortifyingly wet, but she thought that was supposed to happen. Charles had always complained—
No. No more Charles.
Darius stroked her from the very tip of her diamond, thumbing it and her rubies so gently she wanted to scream. He swirled, he seduced, he strummed as his tongue did the very same thing inside her mouth. She had never felt so deliciously wanton—blindfolded and spread open, Darius’s magical hands causing the strangest sensation low in her belly. Her hand moved from his shoulder to press onto his, holding him harder at her core, wondering if he could feel the sparks of lust that were overtaking her.
“Impatient, are we?” he murmured against her lips.
“Mmph,” she responded. Yes, she was impatient. There was something that was about to happen just at the edge of her grasp, and if it didn’t soon she would go absolutely mad.
To her disappointment, Darius disentangled his hand from hers and removed his tongue from her mouth. He
was sitting up, sliding down the bed.
“Why did you stop?” She knew she sounded plaintive—
whiny, even. Did the man not know what she needed? He’d claimed to be knowledgeable about—
Every inch of her responded to what surely was his kiss down there. Hot, wet, his fingers helping. Just like what that naughty angel had been doing with the maiden in the painting she had such difficulty carrying up the stairs. Darius was her own naughty angel, and if it meant she was dying and going to heaven, that was perfectly fine with her.
His tongue seemed to have grown inches, so proficient it was in sweeping over her womanhood, sweeping into—oh, good Lord. Wicked, wicked man. And when he took her diamond between his lips and suckled, just as he had threatened to, he turned from angel to devil and she flew straight off the bed.
Wave after wave came. She bit her lip to keep from keening like a wild animal, but she felt wild. And dangerous. Her fingernails bit into his scalp as she held him in place just in case she accidentally knocked him away with her gyrations. Pru seemed to have no control over the lower portion of her body, or her breasts, or her mind. And she was still wearing her stupid nightgown when all she wanted was to be naked under the stars.
This was what Sophy had with Cyrus. No wonder the girl had not cared for propriety. When one had tasted carnal delight, all common sense took a leave of absence.
After an eternity of exquisite bliss, Darius slowed his pace and Pru attempted to move the pieces of her fragmented thoughts into some semblance of coherence. She would simply die of exhaustion if she had to endure the dildo—it was entirely unnecessary at this point. Although tomorrow—
She’d have to stay. There was no leaving Jane Street after this.
With two shaking hands, she pulled the blindfold up over her forehead. It was important to see Darius Shaw’s face, see if he could have possibly enjoyed himself as much as she had. He raised his head from his labors and lifted a brow. He seemed unruffled, although his lips were red and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“Are you all right?” His voice was sin itself, low, languid. Of course he knew she was all right—he could not have missed the response of her body as she vibrated beneath him.
Lords of Passion Page 22
