by Shana Galen
“Our men?” she asked.
He shook his head. “The papers never report on the cowardice of our men, only the bravery. Honestly, I can hardly call it cowardice. It was more like survival. In any case, the French came running after them, and I was stuck in the middle. One of their boys, and I say boy because I don’t think he could have even been sixteen, came after me. I was on horseback. He was not. He wounded me, and in the heat of the moment, I drew my sword and went after him.”
“The heat of the moment?” Fallon knelt beside him again. She tucked her legs under her, looking perfectly content to sit on the rug. His hands itched to take her hair down, to see how far down her back it would fall. “Surely you were trying to stay alive.”
“I was on horseback, and he’d failed to mortally wound me. I could have kept going, but I turned my mount and went back for him.”
“It was war, Warrick,” she said quietly, looking him directly in the eyes.
“It was revenge, and he was a boy. I killed him.” He put his head in his hands. “God, I can still hear the sound the blade made as it sliced through him—a sickening wet sound. His blood splattered everywhere. It ran down my sword, covering my hands. Do you know how many times I’ve read Macbeth?” He looked up at her now, found her eyes soft with compassion. She should be disgusted by him.
“How many and why? Shakespeare.” She shuddered.
He almost smiled. No pretending to be better than she was for Fallon. “Dozens, and it’s because I can relate to Lady Macbeth. I don’t think I’ll ever wash that soldier’s blood off my hands. And the look on his face. It gives me nightmares.”
“Is that what you were dreaming about the other night?”
“No. That was something else.” He sipped the water again and struggled to keep his hold on Fallon’s arm.
“You don’t see yourself as a hero, do you?” she asked after he was breathing normally again.
“I did what any other soldier would do for the most part. I did worse than some.”
“And you did much better. Look at Daisy’s brother. You saved him. She’s grateful. I’m sure you did even more than that for the country. If not, no one would want you dead.”
“That’s one way to look at it.”
She took his hand. “It’s not easy to forget killing a man. I know. I’ve done it—or at least I tried. But you have to stop thinking of yourself as the man who killed the French boy. You’re so much more than that, Warrick.”
“I killed others.”
“And you saved others, I warrant. You’re still saving others. You’re trying to save the rest of the Diamonds in the Rough, and look how far you’ll go to do so. You’ve all but kidnapped me.”
He laughed. He wanted to believe her. He wanted to stop seeing himself as a murderer, as a monster. He wanted to be… not a hero. He wanted to simply be a man.
He set the glass on the table. “And now I’m going to complete my diabolical scheme and ravish you.”
“Not if I ravish you first,” she said and unfastened the fall on his trousers.
He was hard instantly, and when her mouth closed over his, he had to stop himself from taking her right there. She kissed him with a passion he hadn’t expected. She kissed him to make him forget, he realized. And he knew, instinctively, in Fallon’s arms, he would forget.
“Take your hair down,” he murmured, running his hands up and down her body, learning her dips and curves.
She sat back, reached up, and began to pull the pins out. He imagined she’d remove one and shake it free, but obviously the style in which she wore it was more complicated than that. It fell down in sections, the long brown strands uncurling like apple peels as they tumbled to the floor. And then she swept it over her shoulder, and he could see the ends almost did brush the floor.
“Obviously you’re not in favor of the current style of cropping one’s hair,” he said. His fingers itched to touch those silky tresses, to wind it around his hand, and bend her head back.
“Lady Sinclair said men like long hair. It’s erotic.”
“I can’t argue with her there. What else does Lady Sinclair say?”
“What doesn’t Lady Sinclair say? She has opinions on everything. I do seem to recall her once telling Juliette or Lily that seducing a man is a slow art. One does not hurry.”
“One might hurry a little,” he said. “Patience is not every man’s virtue.”
“Oh, but it is yours, else you would never have succeeded in espionage.” As she spoke, she took the hem of her chemise, which had bunched at her knees, and worked it up her thighs, slowly revealing more and more of that honey-kissed skin. Her thighs were sleek and smooth, her hips flared and were the perfect shape for a man’s hands. Her waist was small, perhaps it looked even smaller with the stark white bindings above it. And then there were her breasts. He had thought of those breasts countless times since he had last seen them fully bared. He was not disappointed. “Should I remove these bindings?” she asked.
His throat was so dry, he had to swallow before he could speak. “Leave them. I’ll be gentle, but I don’t want you hurt again.”
“Oh, no.” She leaned nearer to him, brushing her lips against his mouth and the tips of her breasts against his chest. “Don’t be gentle.” She pushed him back, kissing him as he fell on the soft carpet. Perhaps Kitty the maid would not have reason to be annoyed after all. It did not appear as though they would make it to the bed.
He allowed her to take control, allowed her to touch him and kiss him as she pleased. She was surprisingly tentative in her touches initially. He soon learned she was testing and teasing, learning what he liked and what drove him to madness. He refused to beg, but when she reached for his trousers, he all but thanked her. She withdrew them slowly, her fingers making lazy trails on flesh kissed by cool air. “There,” she murmured in that low, husky voice he found arousing as hell. “Now I finally get to see you.”
He didn’t know why he had the sudden urge to cover himself. He wasn’t overly modest or bashful. He had a body like any other man’s; perhaps he had more scars than some. He had the sudden urge to cover some of the worst patches of white, knitted flesh, but she stayed his hands and gazed into his eyes. “Every one of these has a story, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose.”
“Are they all tragedies?”
He considered. “Not all, but more than I’d like to admit. Someday you’ll know all the stories. I’d like to tell you. But not today.”
She gave him a puzzled look, and he knew what she was thinking. There was no someday for them. They had this day, this moment. But he wasn’t going to be content with that. He was keeping her. Of course, he had to stay alive first, but he’d managed it so far and against far more dangerous adversaries than Joseph Bayley. “Let me touch you,” he said, sitting.
“Oh, no. I’m not quite finished with you yet.”
Warrick didn’t know how much more he could take. He had already exercised great restraint in not taking her hard and fast after several of her more inventive perusals of his body. And now she dipped her head, and he knew his task was about to become even more difficult.
“No, Fallon—”
She closed her mouth around him, and he all but bucked from the sheer heat of her. And when she began to tease him with her tongue, to suck him gently and then harder with that mouth, he had to grip the carpet to keep from calling out. The servants were undoubtedly aware of what was going on, but there was no need to make it patently obvious. And still, he could not help but allow a moan to escape.
“You like this?” she asked.
“Like is not a strong enough word for how I feel at the moment,” he said between clenched teeth. “But I fear I won’t be able to hold on much longer.”
“Then let go,” she said, taking him fully into her mouth.
As much as the idea appealed, he
wanted to be inside her. He wanted to watch the pleasure sweep over her face as he found his own release. With regret—more than he could ever express—he nudged her up. “I want you, Fallon.” He kissed her gently and began to lower her to the floor, but she resisted.
“You don’t always give all the orders,” she said, pushing him back on his elbows. “You should know by now I’m not very good at following them.” She straddled him, then leaned over and pushed him to the floor. Her hair swept over his chest, teasing him, making him dig his hands into the carpet to hold on to the last vestiges of his self-control. He wanted to grab her, lower her onto his throbbing erection, but he couldn’t touch her ribs for fear of hurting her.
And he knew the more he tried to dictate to her, the more she would resist. And he really couldn’t take much more of this exquisite torment. Finally, finally, she guided him to her hot inner core. He could feel the heat of her, feel how wet she was for him. He forced his hips to remain still and not to buck into her as his body dictated. Slowly, with what seemed almost calculated cruelty, she took him inside her. She held him like that, clenched hot and hard within her, for a long moment, and then she moved. She rocked back and forth, testing, teasing, tempting. He wanted to cry out, plead with her to end the torment and ride him hard, but he gritted his teeth and fought for control.
And then she sighed. It was a small thing, but her head fell back, and with the sigh came the loss of her control. Her hips bucked, and she began to move quickly, taking him hard and fast. She fell forward, clenching his chest with her hands and meeting his gaze. Her eyes were hazy and cloudy, the brown of her irises seemingly endless.
Now was his moment. Warrick took her hips in his hands and took control, moving deeper, slower, longer. She sputtered a protest that ended on a moan, and then he felt the first waves of her climax.
Her eyes fluttered open to stare at him in wonder as she clenched around him. In that moment, she transcended beauty. She called out his name, again and again, and he felt her let go.
He wanted, more than anything, to come inside her. He knew the pleasure would be all he imagined and more. But he couldn’t do that to her, couldn’t put her at risk for a child.
Not yet. Not when so much was still uncertain.
As she collapsed with a small cry, he pulled away from her and spent his seed on the floor. When he opened his eyes again, she lay drowsily on the carpet, and her satisfied smile was enough to make him want her all over again.
Thirteen
Fallon never wanted to rise again. Her entire body felt soft and boneless, warm and heavy. She was vaguely aware of Warrick beside her. How could she not be aware of all that hard, bronzed flesh? The man was obviously used to working hard. Even the memory of those muscles bunching and straining all but made her throat go dry.
“I don’t suppose Kitty will be all that happy with us after all.” He indicated the carpet and gave her a sheepish smile. She smiled back because he looked so much like a naughty schoolboy, she couldn’t resist.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said quietly. “But thank you.” She’d never met a man like Warrick. He was so considerate. He treated her like she was someone special. And the pleasure he gave her… She didn’t know what he did, how he managed it, but somehow this time was even better than the last.
And she knew this was just the beginning. She knew he could make her feel more.
But for that she would have to surrender to him, she would have to believe him when he told her he loved her. And she was not that big of a fool. No pleasure was worth the pain she would feel when this—whatever it was—ended.
And it would be over. He was going to marry Lady Edith—or one of her kind. He was one of them—the nobility. She was, and had always been, one of us—a street rat. Who was she to aspire to become the wife of the son of an earl? It would never happen. His mother would make certain it never happened.
And why had her mind jumped to marriage anyway? She wasn’t in love with him. She’d long ago outgrown childish notions of true love. It might be true for others, like Lady Sinclair or even Juliette, but it would never be true for Fallon. She was too soiled, too undeserving. All her life, she’d done nothing but steal, lie, and cheat. And even if she didn’t steal or cheat anymore, she was still lying. She was living a lie.
The Marchioness of Mystery. There was no mystery about her. She was a London gutter rat.
“I’d like to lie about with you like this all day,” he said, reaching over to caress her thigh. For some ridiculous reason, his touch made heat shoot through her again. What was wrong with her? She was so sated she could barely move. “But I have other business.”
Fallon rose on one elbow, grimaced at the pain that caused in her ribs, and struggled to a sitting position. “What business?”
He grinned and touched her cheek. “Afraid I’m leaving you out? Don’t worry, this is mundane business. I have a meeting with my solicitor. It has nothing whatsoever to do with the Diamonds in the Rough.”
He rose and began to dress. She watched him, enjoying the view of his body. Even with all his scars, he was beautiful. It had been some time since she’d seen a man unclothed.
“Should I pose?” he asked, with a look over his shoulder.
She blinked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were so modest.”
“I’m not usually, but I don’t have beautiful women ogling me very often. Especially not women who are not self-conscious themselves.”
Fallon glanced down at her nakedness. She really wasn’t self-conscious. Her body wasn’t perfect, but what woman’s was? Still, she spotted her shift among the discarded clothing and donned it. “I thought it wasn’t safe to go out.”
“It’s not,” he said, struggling with his boots. “You should stay here. I’ll be back in time to fetch you for the rendezvous at The Merry Widow. In fact, I want to arrive early to be certain everything is in place.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Is this your plan to get rid of me so you can go on your own?”
He took her chin between thumb and forefinger. “No. I will return for you.” His eyes swept down her body. “Somehow this chemise makes you look more erotic than when you wore nothing at all.” He bent and kissed her gently, and Fallon had a momentary flash of what her future might have been. She saw Warrick, her husband, kissing her tenderly before going about his work for the day. She saw herself with a house full of children. She saw mornings of slow, leisurely lovemaking, and nights spent asleep in his arms.
And none of it would ever come to pass because she was not good enough for the son of an earl. Even if she wasn’t really a courtesan, she was still no one. She couldn’t even claim her father was a respectable shopkeeper.
Warrick broke the kiss and touched his forehead to hers. “I’ll see you soon.”
She watched him go, pressing her hand to her belly as he walked out the door. Her heart felt as though it had plummeted a few inches. She couldn’t let him do this to her. She couldn’t let him give her false hope. She had to remember who she was and all the lessons she’d learned. She would not fall in love. Not with Warrick Fitzhugh, not with anyone.
An hour later, Fallon had just dozed off when a knock sounded on the door. “Kitty,” she moaned pulling the pillow over her head. “Go away.”
“I would, miss, but there’s someone here to see you.”
Fallon growled. “Who is it? The Countess of Charm again?”
“No, miss. This time it’s the Countess of Sinclair.”
Fallon’s eyes flew open. “Devil take it!”
“Miss? What did you say?”
Fallon jumped to her feet and whirled around looking for a robe. But she had not ordered the valise with her things from the town house unpacked yet. And, of course, she couldn’t get dressed on her own. “Put her in the drawing room, Kitty,” she said, “and make sure she has tea and cakes. Then come help me
dress.”
“That won’t be necessary,” a voice Fallon knew well answered.
“My lady, you shouldn’t be up here.” Kitty sounded horrified.
“Bosh. You said the master was not at home, so unless that was code, Fallon should be alone. I’m coming in, my dear.”
“Of course you are,” Fallon muttered, sitting back on the bed.
The countess entered, looking every bit as regal as always. The silver handle of her ebony walking stick gleamed, as did the jewels at her neck. She wore an afternoon dress of blue trimmed with lavender that brought out her eyes, and her hat was elaborately plumed with at least a dozen feathers. She raised the netting covering her face and arranged it on the brim of the hat. “Oh my.”
She closed the door on whatever Kitty’s last words might have been and shook her head. Fallon rolled her eyes.
“Yes, you look quite debauched, my dear. I might even say thoroughly debauched.”
“I was taking a nap.”
“In that case, you are the most restless sleeper I have ever met, and I suspect you were having a rather wonderful dream. Your cheeks are glowing.”
“How did you find me, or am I to assume you are omniscient?”
“Alas, I am not.” She sat on the bed beside Fallon. “I saw Lily’s man at your town house when I went to call on you.”
“Of course. The Morning Chronicle.” Fallon was happy to hear Lily’s man was at her house. At least another change of clothes would be en route.
“Everyone is talking about it,” the countess said.
“Don’t they have anything better to talk about?”
Lady Sinclair raised her brows. “No, no they don’t, and besides, I thought you liked when your name was mentioned in the press. I almost thought you staged the whole incident to make the top of the Cytherian Intelligence column.”
