To Romance a Charming Rogue tcw-4

by Nicole Jordan

  “What are you doing here, Elle?”

  His words were only slightly slurred, but she suspected he had drunk a great deal.

  “I wanted to see you,” she answered, keeping her tone light.

  Damon averted his gaze to stare at the floor. “Well, you can just go away again. I am in no mood to suffer your teasing.”

  “I imagine not.” Her tone was wry. “But I am not here to tease you or lead you on.”

  “Then why the devil are you here?”

  “To bear you company. I assumed you wouldn't want to sleep for fear your nightmare would return.”

  He scowled at that and lifted his head. “I don't want your damned pity, Elle.”

  “Of course you don't. But I mean to stay. Any friend would do the same. You shouldn't be alone just now. You need someone to share your sorrow.”

  “What do you know about it?” Damon demanded harshly.

  “I think I can understand how important your brother was in your life.”

  His gaze narrowed on her. “Has Cornby been talking out of turn?”

  “He happened to mention that this was the anniversary of Joshua's death.”

  Muttering a low oath, Damon drained his snifter in one long swallow. “If you came to offer solace, I don't want it,” he repeated.

  “Very well, then I will just watch while you drink yourself into a stupor. May I pour you more brandy?”

  Although his expression never softened, he considered her offer for a moment before holding out his glass. “Yes. I fear I am not in the best condition to manage it myself.”

  Taking his glass, Eleanor poured him a generous measure and handed it to him. “May I have some of your brandy for myself?”

  Damon shrugged. “Help yourself.” Then he paused to peer up at her. “The Dragon would say that ladies don't drink brandy.”

  She ignored his provoking reference to her aunt. “I don't want to be a lady tonight, Damon. I just want to be your friend.”

  “Bloody hell… I don't want a friend, Elle.”

  “Well, perhaps I want one. I have always enjoyed your company far more than my aunt's illustrious friends, and just now I have had my fill of them.”

  Damon stared at her a long moment before his mouth curled in agreement. “So have I.”

  Glad that she'd managed to wipe that dark scowl off his face for the time being, Eleanor fetched her own fingerful of brandy and sat in the wing chair beside him.

  For several moments Damon maintained a morose silence-a silence Eleanor was determined not to break until he was willing.

  Fortunately he spoke first. “You impress me, Elle. Most females would be upset finding their husbands three sheets to the wind.”

  She could have made a quip in response, but she kept her tone solemn. “But you have a good reason for getting soused. You want to remember Joshua, and this is your way of keeping his memory alive.”

  “You do understand,” Damon mumbled, sounding a bit surprised.

  “I am trying to, at least.” Eleanor held up her glass. “Shall we toast Joshua's memory?”

  Damon didn't answer at first. She glimpsed the shadow of his sadness before the thick fringe of black lashes swept down to hide his eyes.

  Still without answering, he drank a long gulp of brandy and then drew a deep, shuddering breath.

  “I am terribly sorry you lost your brother, Damon,” she said softly. “Especially in that horrible way.”

  At her quiet condolences, he cast her a sideways glance, yet the aggressiveness had faded from his countenance. Instead, one dark lock had fallen over his brow, giving Eleanor a hint of the young boy Damon had once been. He looked vulnerable, at a loss for words.

  When he remained mute, Eleanor added just as quietly, “Mr. Geary told me what a special boy Joshua was.”

  Averting his gaze, Damon stared down at his glass. “What a waste of a life.” She could hear the anger in his voice, an anger that turned to bleakness when he muttered a curse. “It should have been me, not Joshua.”

  “I think I would have felt the same way if Marcus had died.”

  The raw vulnerability in Damon's face made her heart ache for him. His handsome features were twisted in a merger of desolation and anguish.

  She would give anything to be able to take away his pain, his grief. She wanted to hold and protect him, to find some way to heal him, to chase the shadows from his eyes.

  Setting down her glass on the small table between them, Eleanor rose to stir the fire and added another log. Then she turned back to Damon and began to undress, starting with her slippers and stockings.

  When she reached behind her to unfasten the hooks of her evening gown, Damon speared her with his glance. “What in hell's name are you doing, Elle?”

  “Comforting you.”

  She thought he might object, but he said nothing. Instead he stared at her broodingly, his eyes dark and watchful.

  She finished removing her gown and then her corset. Finally proceeding to her chemise, she slipped the bodice down and let the garment fall to the floor in a whisper of cambric, leaving her completely nude to his view.

  She heard Damon inhale a ragged breath, but he didn't stir a muscle when she moved to stand before him. He merely sat there tensely as she took his brandy glass and set it aside, then bent down and pulled out the hem of his shirt from his breeches.

  She was heartened that he allowed her to draw his shirt over his head, exposing a smooth expanse of chest. Then she knelt at his feet to remove his boots.

  A muscle flexed in his jaw when she reached for the placket of his breeches, and he pushed her hands away. But he himself unfastened his breeches and drawers and took them off, following with his stockings.

  When Damon rose in all his naked splendor, Eleanor's breath caught in her throat at the picture he made, illuminated by the glow of firelight. He looked rather disreputable with his tousled hair and shadow of stubble on his face, but he was still the most sinfully beautiful man she had ever known, with his virile strength and muscular grace.

  Yet his expression remained enigmatic, as if he was waiting for her to make the next move. She obliged by stepping toward him. In the quiet hush of the room, she could almost hear her heart thudding in rhythm with the soft hiss and crackle of the hearth fire as she cupped his face in her hands and raised her lips to his.

  Her kiss started out gentle. The taste of brandy was potent and rich to her senses, and so was the flavor of Damon's mouth… the scent of his skin, the heat of his body. But the gentleness vanished when she stirred an unwilling response in him.

  Lifting her close to his body, he held her with crushing tightness and kissed as if he needed her, as if he craved her.

  His hunger only served to heighten Eleanor's desire, but this moment was not about her. It was all about succoring Damon.

  Pressing her palms against his shoulders, she broke off their fervent kiss and stepped back. Then moving to the bed, she turned back the counterpane and drew down the linen sheets.

  “Will you join me, Damon?” she asked softly.

  His gaze was wary, cautious. “It depends. Do you plan to leave me aching this time?”

  “No. I mean to make love to you.”

  This time she meant to carry through on her implied promise of pleasure.

  Damon evidently believed her, for when she climbed onto the bed and stretched out on her side, he lay down beside her, on his back. But he remained rigid, as if he still didn't trust her.

  Eleanor knew she would have to win back his trust. She wanted his arms around her, flesh on flesh, touching, but she settled for moving closer and pressing light kisses against the side of his throat, his bare shoulder, his collarbone, his chest.

  Finally, when it seemed right, she rose up on her knees and began a tender exploration of his body with her hands, sculpting the hard lines of bone and muscle and burning skin with her palms, her fingertips, until she reached his loins.

  He tensed even more when she closed her fing
ers over his thick arousal, and she could see his jaw tighten, but he lay still while she teased the heavy sacs beneath his erection, pulling lightly. When she took him into her warm hand again, his eyes turned even darker. Then bending, she pressed her lips against the swollen head of his shaft. He sucked in a breath at the first touch of her mouth.

  Eleanor continued her tender ministrations, though, plying him with delicate caresses of her tongue. Damon squeezed his eyes shut, while his hands clenched at his sides, his features taut with desire and pain as she softly ran her tongue around the swollen head… the sensitive ridge below… the pulsing, velvet-smooth length…

  Following her instincts then, she closed her lips around his engorged member to take him more fully in her mouth, enveloping him, welcoming him.

  His whole body began to tremble, making her feel both precious and powerful, so she drew him even deeper, suckling, absorbing his scent and taste.

  When her lips slowly slid down over his fullness once more, his hands moved to curl in her hair and he strained against her mouth, his breathing harsh and ragged. She heard her name hoarsely whispered, felt him shaking.

  Then abruptly he grasped her shoulders and compelled Eleanor to raise her head.

  His jaw was knotted tightly, his voice hoarse when he ground out one word: “Enough.”

  Still clutching her shoulders, he rolled her onto her back and mounted her, encountering no resistance. She kept her thighs spread, soft and welcoming, and threaded her fingers in his dark hair.

  His face was hard with need, his eyes alight with dark fire as he sank into the cradle she made for him. The desire she saw there made her chest feel tight… and then he buried his face in the curve of her neck as he buried his flesh in her wet warmth.

  Eleanor arched her back in response and rocked against him, which made Damon drive upward again, and then again with more urgency.

  Not protesting his ferocity, Eleanor wrapped herself around him. She felt surrounded by him, invaded by him, fulfilled by him as he ignited a burst of fire inside her. Her hips rose up to meet him as he went on withdrawing, then sinking deep, plunging his hardness into the recesses of her body until he couldn't get any closer.

  Her moan turned to a sob of need, a plea that seemed to inflame him. When he grated out her name, the hoarse sound reverberated through her and sent her spiraling over the edge of passion. Every part of her clenched; her inner muscles clutched at him, holding him fast, as shuddering tremors began to ripple remorselessly through her.

  At her fierce climax, Damon let himself surrender. His strong body arched helplessly above her as he reached his own harsh explosion deep within her. He threw back his head as he shattered, his teeth bared in primal pleasure while guttural groans of release ripped from his throat.

  Afterward, his arms came around her as he collapsed upon her. His breathing ragged, he lay there, hot and heavy, still joined to her, and held her close, almost desperately so.

  When Eleanor eventually recovered her own fragmented senses, her hands slid up his back, stroking gently, soothing him. In response, Damon buried his face in the curve of her neck, as if absorbing the warmth and strength of her.

  Eleanor had to swallow against the tender rush of feeling his need evoked. When finally he eased his weight off her, onto his side, she searched his face in the dim light. He looked exhausted, vulnerable, but his eyes were not as haunted as they had been before.

  Feeling hopeful, she caught his hand and laced her fingers with his. “Go to sleep, Damon. I will stay with you tonight.”

  To her relief, he didn't argue but merely closed his eyes, his lashes forming black crescents on his cheeks.

  Her heart full of emotions, Eleanor kept their fingers entwined. She intended to watch over him through the night, to keep the tormenting nightmares away.

  Yet it was the privilege of a wife to hold and comfort her husband, she reflected. And for the first time since their hasty marriage, she actually felt as if she truly was his wife.

  Damon's wife.

  The words felt strange and yet wonderful at the same time. She cherished that feeling of belonging to him.

  And while Damon might not want to be her true husband, she knew he felt something for her. She hadn't mistaken the fierce intensity of his caresses just now.

  Nor had she misjudged his exhaustion. From the sound of his slow even breathing, Eleanor realized he had fallen asleep.

  She smiled faintly as she lay there in the darkness and gently placed a palm against his chest, measuring the beat of his heart with her fingertips.

  Her own heart warmed when unconsciously he moved closer to her, seeking comfort and heat.

  She had comforted tonight. He was still gravely reluctant to talk about his brother, but at least she had made a start.

  She knew why Damon was guarding his heart so closely, why he refused to let love into his life. He couldn't bear to lose anyone else. She wondered how far his fear would drive him.

  Of course she was guilty of her own fear. That he would break her heart again.

  Could she believe Damon's promises? Could she trust the devil lure of precious happiness? He could easily betray her as he had two years ago.

  And yet for the first time since their betrothal ended, she was beginning to hope that her dreams of true love with Damon might someday become a reality.

  Still, if he was going to lower his defenses, it best happen soon, a warning voice prodded Eleanor. She had hoped to protect herself from being hurt, but the more she learned about Damon, the more she loved him.

  Once you are his wife, you should strive to encourage his physical desire for you. And happily, you may take your own pleasure as well. -An Anonymous Lady, Advice…

  Damon woke to bright sunlight streaming into his bedchamber. Evidently Cornby had decided it was time he arose and so had drawn the draperies wide open.

  Damon winced at the bright light and rolled over to bury his beard-stubbled face in the pillows. His head was throbbing from his overindulgence of potent brandy and from his even more potent memories.

  He didn't want to remember last night-how raw and exposed he'd felt with Elle, what he'd said to her, how he had made love to her like a frenzied savage, the tender way she had held him through the night… But the sheets smelled of her, and with her scent, vivid images of Elle floated into his mind.

  Despite his fierce reluctance to admit it, he had needed her comforting last night. And despite his determination to drive her away, Eleanor had refused to give up. She had stayed beside him, determined to help him battle his demons.

  How many women would have done the same for their drunken husbands-?

  A familiar masculine throat being cleared told Damon he wasn't alone. When he pried one eye open, he saw that Cornby stood respectfully at one side of the room, waiting for acknowledgment.

  A further perusal of his bedchamber showed Damon that his wife was no longer there.

  “I have brought your breakfast, my lord,” Cornby said with far too much cheer.

  “Not hungry,” Damon mumbled, wishing the servant would go away.

  “Even so, I beg you to eat. Her ladyship asked me to see that you had proper sustenance, and I feel obliged to follow her wishes.”

  That hint of sedition compelled Damon to rouse himself. Gingerly, he sat up with the pillows propped behind him and the covers drawn up to his waist, concealing the lower half of his nude body.

  “Do I need to remind you that I pay your salary, Cornby?” he asked as the valet set a breakfast tray on his lap.

  “No, my lord. But I have hopes of ingratiating myself with the new mistress. I have learned from long experience that a household runs much more smoothly if the lady is happy.”

  Damon bit back a smile, since smiling made his head hurt, and surveyed the contents of the tray. In addition to an ample breakfast of crumpets, eggs, bacon, and coffee, there was a thick greenish-gray liquid in a tall glass. “Pray what is that, may I ask?”

  “That is a
concoction that her ladyship says her brother, Lord Danvers, swears by. It is supposed to counter the debilitating effects of liquor. Lady Wrexham claims it will work wonders on your aching head.”

  Picking up the glass cautiously, Damon took a tentative sip and discovered the taste somewhat more appealing than its appearance, which was not saying much. “What is in this?”

  “I am not certain, my lord. Her ladyship mixed it herself in the kitchens. But she promised she would share the recipe with me in anticipation of future occurrences. Oh, and I was supposed to convey a message to you. She hopes you will escort her on a ride in an hour's time, if you feel up to the exertion.”

  Damon grunted noncommittally, not certain he wanted to face Eleanor so soon after his follies of last night. Keeping his distance from her seemed wise after lowering his defenses so thoroughly in front of her.

  Still, that didn't stop him from asking Cornby about the wedding gift he planned to give her. “Has the delivery for Lady Wrexham come yet?”

  “Not yet, my lord, but it should arrive from London sometime today. As soon as it does, I will personally supervise its planting as you directed.”

  “Good.”

  “Also,” Cornby added, “your cousin, Miss Blan-chard, asked after you. She expressed a wish to speak to you when you have a free moment.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “No, my lord, but I would venture to guess she was concerned by your disappearance yesterday.”

  Damon sighed. He would likely be unable to escape Tess's concern if she was set on seeing him. But he supposed she had the right to be worried, since she cared for him-and since she was one of very few people who knew what yesterday had meant to him.

  Admittedly he felt somewhat better after drinking the potion Eleanor had concocted and fortifying his empty stomach with nearly half the breakfast. Within the hour he had bathed and shaved and dressed in riding clothes.

  He was tying his cravat before the cheval glass when a knock sounded on his bedchamber door. Damon tensed, thinking it might be Eleanor, but instead it was his cousin Tess, he saw over his shoulder.

  After greeting Cornby pleasantly, Tess swept past the valet and moved toward Damon, offering him a bright smile when she noted his attire. “Good, you mean to get out. It is a glorious morning-much warmer now that the storm has passed.”