The Bed and the Bachelor

by Tracy Anne Warren

  The moment she entered the dining room, however, the debacle with the dessert service came rushing back, dual sensations of embarrassment and panic flaring back to life within her.

  As housekeeper, it had been her job to make the fancy dessert. If only Mr. Stowe and Mrs. Tremble hadn’t insisted she carry the trifle into the dining room as a show of her talent for baking, none of the subsequent events would have occurred. She would never have been in the room; never have overheard the men’s conversation about that woman, whoever she was, who had been sent to prison for being caught as a spy; and never made a spectacle of herself.

  Her stomach clenched at the memory, a fresh chill running through her veins at the remembered words.

  She deserves everything she gets for being a damned spy. Woman or not, they ought to put her on the gallows and let her hang.

  Her fingers had gone nerveless in that moment, the spoon tumbling top over end to the floor. Somehow, she’d managed to recover quickly before anyone in the room had a chance to realize she was distressed over more than the mess. But what if they had realized the truth? Rather than cajoling and reassuring her, would they have turned cruel? If any of the gentlemen at dinner knew who she really was and what she planned to do, would they want to put her on the gallows as well?

  Would Drake?

  The idea made her sick, not only with worry and fear but with sorrow. For try as she might to put him from her heart, she loved Drake Byron. Loved him, even knowing how much he would surely despise her were he ever to learn the truth about her true identity.

  Sebastianne Dumont.

  Widow of an Imperial cavalry officer.

  Daughter of a near-penniless French mathematician, who’d started life as a gentleman’s son, fled France to escape the Terror, then returned home from England years later only to fall prey to Napoleon’s calculating schemes.

  Eldest child of a British squire’s daughter, who’d risked her family’s censure and been disowned in order to marry the man she loved.

  Sister to a pair of boys who would grow to be fine young men if only their youth and their lives weren’t stolen first in this hateful war.

  And now, just like her mother, she too loved imprudently. But where there had been hope for Maman, there would be none for her. For unlike her mother, she was a liar and a spy, and given that, Drake Byron could never be hers.

  Forcing herself to attend to the matter at hand, she inspected the dining room, then blew out a last few remaining candles. Out in the corridor, she made her way toward the stairs. She was just about to ascend when she noticed a patch of light shining out of the library.

  Had one of the footmen forgotten to snuff the candles? Deciding to make sure, she walked down the hall, pushed open the door and walked inside.

  The room appeared empty, a large branch of candles illuminating only a narrow portion of the spacious, book-lined interior. The scents of leather, parchment and ink perfumed the air, along with the unmistakably sharp tang of brandy. And there was another scent as well—clean, sultry, spicy and wholly male.

  “My lord,” she said, whirling to find Drake lounging in a wide leather armchair, a glass of spirits dangling idly between his fingers. “Your pardon. I did not realize you were here.”

  For a long moment he said nothing, just sat regarding her out of heavily lidded eyes. Languidly, he took a sip from the glass. “Up late again, I see,” he drawled. “Always the last to bed, aren’t you?”

  Her forehead drew tight. “No, not always. I was simply checking to make sure the house is secure for the evening.”

  “Isn’t that the butler’s and footmen’s job?” he challenged.

  She clasped her hands together, willing herself not to rise to his bait. Clearly, he was in a foul humor despite the visit from his brothers and friends. Actually, she realized she’d never seen Drake—Lord Drake—in a true temper before since he was generally a very coolheaded and logical sort of man. But . . . there was a light in his clear green eyes that warned of trouble.

  “Mr. Stowe and the footmen make certain the doors and windows are locked and the house secure,” she explained calmly. “I was merely verifying that the rooms are neat and well-ordered for the morrow. I only came in here because of the light. I was worried a branch of candles might have been forgotten.”

  “Well, as you can see, they were not.” He swirled the amber liquid in his goblet, then took another drink.

  Definitely foul-tempered, she thought.

  “If there is nothing further then, I shall bid you a good night, my lord.” She turned to walk to the door, but his words stopped her.

  “My lord,” he repeated in a scornful tone. “So formal. But then I suppose the two of us need to be formal in order to maintain the proprieties. Of course, you weren’t so reserved the other night when you were lying beneath me in bed, moaning my name.”

  She pulled in a sharp breath, her shoulders suddenly taut. A long moment passed before she could form a reply. “In deference to your present impairment, I shall overlook that remark.”

  “What impairment?” he growled sardonically.

  “The fact that you are drunk, my lord. Now, if you will excuse me—“

  “I don’t believe I shall.” He set down his glass with a thump before rising to his feet. “But you’re right. I am drunk. A vice in which I rarely indulge since drink has a way of addling a man’s mind.”

  Crossing the distance between them in a few quick strides, he reached out and pulled her into his arms. “Just as you addle my mind. Try as I might, I cannot get you out of my head, cannot forget the feel of you against me, or the taste of your sweet lips on mine.”

  She flattened her hands against his chest, her pulse beating in erratic strokes, even as she made the feeble attempt to keep a bit of space between them. “Drake, we can’t.”

  “Why can’t we?” he asked, tugging her closer. “We did the other night, and you liked it. I know you did, even if you refused me afterward. No woman could respond the way you did and have it all be a lie.”

  “It wasn’t a lie,” she admitted on a whisper. “It’s only that it cannot be again.”

  “I refuse to believe that,” he said. “I refuse to let you end whatever this is between us, however insane it may be.”

  Then his mouth was on hers, plundering her lips with a raw sensuality that demanded her response as well as her surrender. She knew she should resist, realized that she ought to push him away as her conscience warned she must. But it felt so good, so right to be with him like this, the brandy-flavored taste of his tongue intoxicating as it glided over her own, the heady warmth of his strong, masculine body making her want to twine herself around him and cling like a vine.

  But she couldn’t.

  She shouldn’t.

  Not when fate decreed she must soon leave him behind.

  Yet even as she struggled to resist, her desire flared higher, his kiss too wonderful to deny. What did her conscience matter when she wanted him so desperately? Why should they remain apart when his slightest touch made her dizzy, and his darkest passions left her aching for more?

  Would surrender really be so terrible?

  Suddenly, he took the choice from her, wrenching his mouth away, breath panting from his lips as though he’d just run for miles. His arms loosened, yet he did not release her, as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to end their embrace.

  “Forgive me, I’m a brute,” he said, the words seemingly torn from his heaving lungs. “I’m drunk and half out of my mind, doing only as I wish with no concern for your own desires. You refused me, and I haven’t the right to force you. You told me no, and I promised we would go on as before, master and servant only, however much I may wish it otherwise.” His face drawn in lines of remorse, he met her gaze. “Forgive me. I’m sorry.”

  His hold loosened more, his shoulders tightening as he prepare
d to step away. But she stopped him, reaching up to lay a palm against his cheek.

  He shuddered beneath her touch.

  “I’m not,” she murmured, her heart thundering in her chest with the violence of a summer storm. He was giving her permission to end their affair once and for all. He was willing to put his desires aside and let her go.

  But she couldn’t do the same.

  Nor could she stop herself from acting the fool. Not when she wanted him so much. Not when she loved him as if her heart would swell until it burst.

  In that instant, she threw the last of her caution aside. What did it matter if they had so little time together? How could their parting possibly hurt more since, regardless of the path she chose, he would still curse and hate her when this charade of hers was finally done? Why deny herself—and him—this small place out of time? This fleeting, unforgettable span of happiness?

  “What did you say?” he asked, choking out the words.

  “I said I’m not,” she repeated, her voice strong and sure, “sorry, that is. I want you, Drake Byron, and I’m using my prerogative as a woman to change my mind. Now are you going to kiss me again, or will you make me beg?”

  For a moment he looked incredulous, then abruptly he smiled, his mouth curving into a wide, irrepressible grin. His arms tightened around her again as he drew her flush against him. “Who am I to deny a woman her dearest wish? As for your begging, I’ll have to take that under further consideration.”

  Before she had time to contemplate the full import of his statement, he lifted her high against him and crushed her mouth to his.

  Chapter 17

  At first, Drake wasn’t sure that he’d heard her correctly or if he was just too bloody foxed to tell the difference between reality and wishes.

  Yet here she was in his arms again.

  Here she was kissing him with a fiery passion that sizzled all the way down to his toes.

  Under the circumstances, who was he to quibble over a little thing like reality when he had exactly what he wanted?

  Who was he to question anything when she was standing in his arms, her lips and tongue doing things to him that even the most seductive temptress couldn’t have done better?

  He shuddered, his arousal growing swift and hard. Cupping her bottom, he pressed her willing body even more firmly against his to let her feel his response. Rather than demure, she twined her arms tighter around him and glided her hands in widening circles over his shoulders and back.

  Still it wasn’t enough.

  There were too many layers of clothes in the way, too much space keeping his flesh from joining hers.

  Without breaking their rapacious kiss, he swept her off her feet and crossed the room in three bounding strides. Reaching the brown silk-upholstered divan, he laid her on it carefully, glad for once of the prevailing furniture style that dictated the piece have only half a back.

  Sinking down beside her, he speared his fingers into her hair, pins springing away in wild arcs and pops as he freed her long, autumn-hued tresses from their bonds. Taking up a fistful of her hair, he buried his face in her satiny locks to breathe in their luxurious scent. Loath to let go, he wrapped a few thick skeins around his wrist, using it to gently arch her head back, so he had full access to the most tender parts of her throat.

  Smiling, he pressed his mouth to the underside of her jaw, teasing there with his lips and tongue before scattering kisses against her cheek and temple and around to her ear. He blew softly, eliciting an answering shiver. He groaned as her small palms slid beneath the material of his coat and waistcoat.

  In response, he bit her earlobe, working the small nub of flesh between his teeth in a way that made her gasp and writhe beneath him. Abandoning her ear, he used the edge of his tongue to paint a wet line along her exposed neck before pursing his lips to blow on that too, making her shudder violently. Nuzzling her delicate nape, he opened his mouth to give her a long, drawing kiss.

  Apparently unwilling to be outdone, however, she collected herself enough to ease her fingers under the waistband of his trousers. He arched as she found bare skin, then again as she caressed him along the base of his spine and lower across the top of his buttocks. His shaft throbbed, as hard as if she’d just taken it in her hand.

  Holy hell, he cursed in his head, she’s driving me mad.

  But then he was already half-crazed with lust for her, so what was a little more insanity?

  Leaning up suddenly, he shucked off his coat, flinging the garment to the floor. His waistcoat and cravat came next, sailing through the air, already forgotten. She watched, her whiskey gold eyes hungry, as he pulled at his shirt and peeled that away too.

  His body turned hot as she laid her palms against his naked chest, his eyelids sliding closed as he reveled in the sensation of her caressing hands moving over him.

  Exploring him.

  Inflaming him.

  Tormenting him.

  Definitely tormenting him, he realized, drawing in a sharp breath as she flicked her nails over his flat male nipples. His eyes sprang open, a groan leaving his lips.

  “You’ll have to pay for that,” he said warningly.

  She gave a feline smile. “I certainly hope so, my lord.”

  “Drake,” he ordered. “When you’re in my arms, I’m Drake and you’re Anne.”

  Her expression sobered for a moment, making him wish he knew what she was thinking. Then the look disappeared, her palms making wider forays across his chest and arms and shoulders as though she were trying to memorize him.

  “You have far too many clothes on, madam. Far more than I,” he observed, his fingers going to the buttons that ran the length of her sensible, dark blue bodice. “Let’s remedy that and get you naked.”

  Suddenly, the bold temptress in her fell away, an expression of vulnerability crossing her face. “Maybe we should go upstairs,” she whispered.

  He shook his head, his body instantly rebelling against the idea. Even the short trip to his bedroom would be too long to wait. Besides, what if he agreed, and she changed her mind along the way?

  “No,” he said roughly, “I want you here. Now.” To emphasize his point, he kissed her, leaving her lips rosy and damp.

  Her eyelids drooped, and she trembled against him. “Can we at least lock the door?”

  Only then did he realize she was right and that the door was standing half-open. He’d been so caught up in making love to her that he’d completely forgotten any notion of discretion.

  In a flash, he was up and back, the room securely barred from any chance of discovery despite the fact that the house seemed quiet and all the servants presumably asleep.

  “We’re alone now,” he said on his return. “Stand up.”

  Her eyes widened, but after a brief hesitation, she obediently she did as he commanded.

  His hands went to work, stripping her of her garments with an efficiency that demonstrated his confident familiarity with feminine attire. Left only in her shift, she trembled visibly, all of her earlier bravado gone. Stepping close, he caught her to him and kissed her—long, slow and with a thoroughness that urged a helpless moan from her throat.

  Untying the little bow just above her breasts, he eased the cotton open to reveal her charms. A small push against the straps had the cloth tumbling lower to sag around her hips. Skimming his hands over her, he inched the cloth the rest of the way off, where it fell into a pool at her feet. Taking a single step back, he stared at the beauty revealed before him.

  “So pretty,” he murmured, as he cupped one of her breasts inside his palm. “So perfect.”

  And then he had to taste her, his mouth literally aching to have her warm, womanly flesh moving against his tongue. Sinking to his knees, he pulled her to him and began suckling, using long, leisurely draws that had her sagging in helpless desire within his grasp.

 
; Sebastianne didn’t know how it was possible for her to still be standing upright. If not for the iron strength of Drake’s hold, she knew her knees would have buckled already and she’d be sprawled in an insensible heap on the floor. Instead, she swayed within his grasp, trembling as he lavished her with such sweet sensation she could barely recall her own name.

  Dieu. It was so good.

  Everything he did.

  Everywhere he touched.

  It was as though her body was no longer her own to control, as if he’d stolen her will and made her forget everyone and everything but him and this moment together.

  Dizzy with longing, she combed her fingers through the thick, chestnut silk of his hair. Caressing his head, she silently urged him on as he played his tongue and lips and teeth over her aching peaks, moving from one breast to the other until she wasn’t sure she could bear the pleasure any longer. Her legs quivered, the last of her strength seeming to give way as a keening moan escaped her lips.

  In the next moment, she found herself lying once more on the divan, its feathered softness cushioning her body. But she didn’t have time to consider her new position; he didn’t give her any time as he raked his teeth over one highly sensitive nipple before drawing so forcefully upon her that she shook from hair to toes.

  She cried out, blood pounding in violent beats in her throat and wrists and temples. She cried out again moments later as he parted her legs and slid a pair of fingers deep inside where she was already wet and aching with need. Her thighs tightened involuntarily against his hand, unintentionally driving him deeper. His lips curved against her breast, giving her a mind-numbing little nip before he began stroking her tender inner flesh with devilish intent. Her legs fell wide of their own accord, giving him as much latitude as he wished.

  And oh, did he wish, his fingers sliding in and out and around with a finesse that was nothing short of heaven.

  Or hell perhaps.

  She wasn’t sure which, the pleasure was so intense, so decadently sexual that she wondered one moment how she could live through it, and the next how she could ever live without it.