To Romance a Charming Rogue tcw-4

by Nicole Jordan

  “Next I would slide my hand between your thighs and find you wet and ready for me. I would stroke your center with my fingers, till you were whimpering with hunger for me. And then I would set my mouth on you and use my tongue to arouse you even further.”

  Eleanor's stomach clenched as she imagined Damon stroking her with his tongue as he'd done before.

  “I can hear your gasps of pleasure as I savor your taste. Then when you are half mad with need, I would enter you slowly, prolonging the moment. I would fill you with my cock, Elle, so that we moved together, as if we were one person, so that you couldn't tell when I end and you begin…”

  Heat flushed her body, while between her legs desire throbbed. Damon was spinning a web of fascination around her, captivating her with his voice, his eyes. Those dark eyes held a memory of their first time together four days ago, reminding her how incredible it had been between them.

  And his recitation was having a similar effect on Damon, Eleanor realized when he parted the folds of his dressing gown. “See what you have done to me, love… My loins are full and aching for you.”

  Rising from his groin was the bold evidence of his sexual arousal, long and huge and swollen. She couldn't help staring at that rigid male flesh, remembering how it had felt moving inside her.

  Then Damon untied the sash at his waist and shrugged off his dressing gown. When he rose, something hot and molten unfurled in her belly. It was the first time she had seen him entirely naked, and she looked her fill. Firelight sculpted his sensual, strong-boned body… his broad shoulders, his finely muscled chest and taut stomach, his narrow hips, his long, powerful legs.

  Damon stood very still, letting her take in every detail, his gaze heated and compelling as he observed her helpless fascination.

  If any man could be called beautiful, it was Damon. His chiseled body was perfect, hard and vital, rawly masculine. Eleanor felt a fierce urge to touch him, to caress him. Then her gaze dropped, fixing again on the swirl of dark hair that cradled his hardness. The evidence of his desire stood rigid, flushed, thickly engorged…

  Her breath caught in her throat even before he reached out to take her wineglass from her. Setting it on the mantel, he gently grasped her wrists and drew her to her feet.

  “D-Damon,” she stammered, her protest husky and uneven.

  “Touch me, Elle,” he coaxed, pressing her palms against his bare chest, inviting her hands to explore the hard expanse. “Touching is allowed, sweeting. I am your husband and you are my wife.”

  His flesh was smooth and hot; sleek muscles rippled and played beneath satiny skin, and Eleanor couldn't resist doing his bidding.

  He was an unholy temptation, she thought, feeling dazed.

  Then he bent close, so that his breath ruffled her hair. “You smell like sin, wife,” he murmured, nuzzling her temple. “Like rain and sweet, warm woman…”

  His scent was sinful, too. A hint of musky desire rose between them, while heat radiated upward from his body, enveloping her and holding her spellbound.

  When he drew back, the look she saw in his eyes made her heart thud erratically. Then Damon untied the ribbons of her dressing gown and parted the lapels, exposing her chemise. Her nipples were excruciatingly hard and blatantly outlined beneath the fine cambric.

  “If I were to make love to you, this is how I would start…”

  Lifting a suggestive finger, he found her parted lips and traced slowly downward along her throat. His touch was light, delicate… searing. Then raising both hands to fondle her breasts, he traced her shape through the fabric, rubbing his palms with teasing pressure over the mounds.

  An intense surge of pleasure rippled through Elea nor as he lightly squeezed each nipple, but she couldn't bring herself to object. She wanted to feel his hands all over her body.

  “Let me keep you warm, Elle.”

  Her heart was pounding wildly when he shifted his hands. Sliding them around her hips to cup her buttocks, he pulled her firmly against his tightly muscled frame, into the cradle of his thighs. “Feel how much I want you.”

  One of his knees separating hers, he pressed his arousal against her stomach, and Eleanor forgot to breathe. She could feel the rigid, heated length of his sex branding her like hot steel. And the thought of him moving inside her, completing her, made her heart labor even harder. She was overwhelmed with longing, the burning need in her loins to feel him driving deep into her, to feel his thick shaft filling her, plunging rhythmically… Which was precisely what he wanted her to feel, a protective voice warned in her head.

  Damon knew how desperately she longed for him, how she craved his passion.

  Yet she was stronger than that, Eleanor scolded herself. She wouldn't give in to his enchantment this time. She wouldn't let him win, wouldn't let herself get lost in the fire in his eyes.

  On the contrary, she had to turn the tables on him. She had to make Damon feel the same unquenchable yearning for her, so that someday he would come to love her.

  “Perhaps you are right,” she whispered, her voice an unsteady rasp. “We need a bed.”

  Her apparent change of heart seemed to take him by surprise, but he didn't question her when she took his hand and led him to the bed.

  “Lie down, my lord husband.”

  Damon obeyed, climbing onto the high bed and stretching out on his back.

  He looked starkly beautiful, sprawled there on the dark gold counterpane. Shadow and light roamed over him, accentuating the strong, sleek lines of his body.

  Eleanor felt a fresh surge of primitive arousal just looking at him-and so did he, judging by the heat in his eyes.

  She took a deep breath, though, bracing herself against her yearning, and placed a palm on his broad chest.

  Feeling the firm resilient muscle beneath the warm velvet of his skin, she stroked him for a moment, her touch light and caressing, but then her hand stilled.

  “Damon, do you recall how you always manage to fluster me by kissing me to distraction?”

  “Yes, love.”

  “This time I mean to do the same to you.”

  Bending down to him, she took his lips in a long, sweet, lingering kiss.

  Then despite her own yearning to continue, she tore herself away.

  “That is all for now, husband. I told you, I am not interested in a marriage of convenience. However, if you ever think you can give me more-if you come to want a true marriage as I do-pray, let me know.”

  With that she turned and fled to the safety of her own bedchamber.

  She had violated Fanny's precepts with a ven geance, Eleanor knew, by declaring her objective so boldly, but she couldn't bring herself to regret her blunder.

  It was time Damon learned just how serious she was about wanting him as a true husband and not merely a lover. About wanting his heart and not only his body.

  Dismayingly, however, the choice was entirely his to make.

  Sometimes, however, it is best simply to follow your instincts. -An Anonymous Lady, Advice…

  The shout woke her from a restless sleep.

  Her heart thudding in alarm, Eleanor sat up in bed and searched the darkness, wondering what had startled her awake.

  The hoarse shout came again from Damon's bedchamber, muffled by the closed door between their rooms. Springing out of bed, Eleanor quickly lit a candle and hurried to unlock their connecting door.

  By the time she reached Damon's bedside, his shouts had turned to a low, moaning sound. He was thrashing in his sleep, obviously in the throes of a nightmare.

  The tangled covers had lowered to his waist, leaving his torso bare. His skin was damp and chilled with perspiration, Eleanor realized when she put a gentle hand on his shoulder and shook him.

  He didn't respond, even when she called his name softly, so she shook him more forcefully. “Damon, wake up!”

  At her order, his eyes flew open.

  He lay there rigidly, his expression dazed, confused, raw. In the glow of candlelight, she could see h
is pulse pounding in his throat, could feel the coiled tension in his body beneath her palm.

  “You were having a nightmare,” she said in a low voice.

  The eyes he turned to her were tortured. He stared at her, looking almost lost. Wild locks of mahogany hair framed his face, while a shadow of stubble darkened his jaw.

  His shoulders shuddered. Then, brushing off her touch, he sat up and rubbed a hand raggedly down his face.

  “What is troubling you, Damon?” Eleanor asked quietly.

  “Nothing.”

  His tone was harsh, abrupt, dismissive. Just as abruptly, he seemed to notice her attire-that she was standing there in her nightshift and bare feet.

  “I am fine,” he added tersely. “Go back to bed, Elle.”

  She wasn't proof against his utter vulnerability, though. She ached to smooth away the lines of pain from his features, to hold him until that desolate look had faded from his eyes.

  Raising a soothing hand, she cupped the side of his face. “I wish I could help,” she murmured.

  At her gentle touch, Damon froze for a handful of heartbeats. Then he pulled back sharply, away from her offer of comfort.

  His lashes swept down to hide his eyes, shuttering his expression, shutting her out. “I don't need your help.”

  Eleanor hesitated. “Would you at least like me to stay with you a while?”

  “No. I don't want you here.”

  Lifting his gaze, he stared back at her, his eyes as dark as a moonless midnight. His voice was brittle when he repeated, “Go back to sleep, Eleanor.”

  Reluctantly she obeyed at least part of his command; she returned to her own bed. Yet she definitely did not feel like sleeping.

  A tightness welled in Eleanor's chest, in part because Damon had professed not to want her, but mainly because his emotional state dismayed and disturbed her.

  What was causing him such pain that he suffered nightmares from it?

  It was a long, long time before Eleanor felt herself drifting off to sleep. And when finally she did, her last thought was that Damon was not only shutting her out of his heart. He was shutting her out of his life.

  Sunday dawned wet and miserable, which dampened the spirits of all the houseguests. Most of the company stayed indoors and played parlor games, and Eleanor made an effort to join in with her usual enthusiasm.

  Damon, however, remained aloof and withdrawn the entire day. And on Monday she saw nothing of him at all. He never appeared at breakfast, and when there was no sign of him at luncheon, Eleanor decided to search for him.

  When she went upstairs and tapped on the connecting door between their rooms, she discovered his manservant in Damon's bedchamber.

  “I believe he is out riding, milady,” Cornby responded in answer to her question about Lord Wrex-ham's whereabouts.

  Eleanor glanced out the windows where a steady stream of rain was drizzling down. “In this weather?”

  “He prefers to be alone sometimes. Especially today.”

  “What is today?”

  “The anniversary of his brother's death, my lady.”

  That intelligence jolted her. “”Oh,” she said rather inadequately. “I didn't realize.”

  “His lordship does not like to speak of it.”

  Eleanor frowned as a thought occurred to her. “Cornby, Lord Wrexham had a severe nightmare the other night. Would that have anything to do with his brother's death?”

  “I expect so, my lady. He always has bad dreams at this time of year.”

  “Dreams of his brother dying?”

  “Regrettably, yes.” The valet hesitated before adding with some reluctance, “His lordship usually spends a great deal of time riding, driving himself physically- I believe in order to make himself weary enough to keep away the nightmares. Although that does not always suffice.”

  Cornby's revelation greatly dismayed Eleanor. “Did he give you any indication of when he might return?”

  “No, my lady. Sometimes it is before dark, but sometimes it is late into the night.”

  “So this has happened before?”

  “Regularly, my lady. It is a yearly ritual with him.”

  Her dismay only increased. Was Damon still punishing himself for being unable to save his brother? Eleanor wondered with a heavy heart.

  It was then that Cornby's occupation caught her attention. He had paused respectfully when she entered the room, but now she realized he'd been occupied in tapping a small wooden cask and filling a crystal decanter with a dark amber liquid that looked and smelled like brandy.

  “I suppose he plans to drink that when he returns?” she asked.

  “Yes, my lady. I have standing orders to have a sufficient quantity of brandy on hand each year for the sad occasion.”

  It concerned Eleanor that Damon hoped to find solace in an alcoholic stupor, but the reason for his nightmares distressed her more.

  She waved a hand at the cask. “It is alarming that he is still tormented by memories. His brother died many years ago.”

  “Yes, but I believe his lordship's grief was greater than normal, considering how close they were. Sometimes, apparently, there is a bond between twins that is not present between most siblings. It was difficult for Lord Wrexham to watch his twin waste away, suffering such terrible pain. I suppose you could say it devastated him.”

  Eleanor winced inwardly, imagining how agonizing it must have been for both brothers. Of course Damon was still haunted by his twin's death. And he was enduring his grief all alone. She hated to think of it.

  “I wish there was something I could do to help,” she said, her voice low and earnest.

  “Perhaps there is, my lady.” Cornby was not immediately forthcoming, however. When Eleanor gave him a searching glance, he added quietly,”I dislike betraying Lord Wrexham's trust in me by speaking of him out of turn.”

  “Please tell me, Cornby,” she urged, badly wanting to understand her husband better. “I am his wife now, but you know him better than anyone.”

  The elderly manservant nodded yet still looked uncomfortable when he spoke. “I think perhaps it might do his lordship immeasurable good if he could unburden himself to a confidant. Of course it is not my position to advise you, but perhaps if you could speak to him…”

  Eleanor was extremely glad to see that Cornby had his lord's best interests at heart. “I will indeed speak to him, Cornby. Thank you for suggesting it.”

  The valet hesitated again. “My lady… perhaps… that is, you should not feel slighted if his lordship rebuffs any attempts at discourse. He is not one to let others close.”

  Which was an immense understatement, Eleanor reflected, recalling how Damon had abruptly ordered her from his room the other night, despite the torment of his nightmares.

  “You are extremely loyal to him, are you not, Cornby?”

  “Yes, my lady. I am devoted to him. But he has earned my devotion. He is a fine master… and a fine man.”

  She smiled faintly. “I agree with you-and I thank you for serving him so well.”

  The valet bowed low. “It is my duty, my lady, but my pleasure also.”

  Cornby had given her a good deal to think about, Eleanor mused as she returned to her own bedchamber, and she was very grateful to him.

  It was crystal clear to her now why Damon was determined to let no one in, even her. Especially her, perhaps. Because the loss of his brother had affected him so profoundly, he was bent on shunning any future intimacy for fear of enduring that devastating grief again.

  The thought made her heart hurt.

  She also couldn't help thinking of their broken betrothal two years ago. Had Damon turned to his mistress so as to purposely drive her away? Because he didn't want to let her get close enough to have the power to hurt him?

  It was possible.

  But the past concerned her less than what to do now. What happened to a man when all his grief was bottled up inside him? The pain escaped in nightmares, that was what. Unless it had another
outlet.

  She needed to speak to Damon about his feelings, Eleanor decided as she left her own room and moved down the corridor to return downstairs. But would he allow her to? He'd spurned her recent efforts to console him and might very well do so again if she attempted to make him talk about his brother.

  In fact, now that she considered it, Damon had never shared any of his real feelings with her in all the time she'd known him. He'd buried his emotions grave-deep and doubtless wanted to keep them buried.

  Well, she would just have to change his mind, Eleanor resolved-and she could not use Fanny's tactics to do it, either. Until now she had relied on the courtesan's counsel for guidance, but this was a time when she needed to follow her own instincts. There had been enough of mating games between them. What Damon needed was a friend.

  Strengthening their friendship would go farther than trying to arouse his desire for her, Eleanor concluded. She was still determined to make Damon fall in love with her-and to make certain he had no reason to want a mistress when he had her for his wife- but she intended to rely on her own intuition rather than an instruction manual.

  Still stewing, she rejoined the company, but she felt almost hopeful as she spent the next several hours forming a plan.

  Damon didn't make an appearance at dinner, although Eleanor knew he had returned to Rosemont; the stables had informed her, as she'd requested.

  If anyone noticed his empty place at the table, they didn't question her about it. But Eleanor couldn't forget. Even with Marcus and Arabella and Tess there to distract her, without Damon present, the evening seemed rather interminable. She kept watching the ormolu clock on the hearth mantel, wondering if he was drinking himself into oblivion to keep the haunting memories at bay.

  After the tea tray had been brought into the drawing room later that night, Eleanor slipped away and went upstairs. Damon didn't answer her quiet knock on his bedchamber door, but she entered anyway.

  She found him sitting alone before a fire that had nearly burned out, wearing merely a shirt and breeches and riding boots. The room was dim except for the fading glow of embers, but there was enough light to see his features. His expression was dark and brooding when he met her gaze.