The Rogue's Last Scandal

by Alina K. Field

  For now, she would be brave, and she would ask about his dueling later. “Put out your foot.”

  Muscles flexing, he complied, clutching the chair arms and extending one long leg. She tugged one boot and then the other, and stepped back, watching him peel off his stockings.

  After, he did not move, but sat, richly carved, strong—he was no padded, corseted society dandy.

  And he could easily overpower her and force her if he pleased. She could not fight him. Her hands began to shake and she clenched them at her waist.

  He would not. He had promised. She did trust him.

  “The rest,” she said.

  “Would you like to help some more?”

  The soft words sent a shiver through her. She gripped her hands tighter.

  He stood slowly. “Forgive me. I’m teasing you.” In seconds he pushed trousers and smalls down about his hips to the floor and stepped out of them.

  Graciela pressed her lips together, pressed her hands against her chest to squelch the pounding, to push air into her lungs. In their three days together, Rigo had done no more than open up his fall. She’d seen his cock, but only because he’d made her look.

  And everything with Rigo was on a smaller scale. Dios. He had torn her apart with that smaller prick, again and again. She could not do this.

  Charley snatched his garments and held them in front of him.

  “No,” she said. “It’s…it’s all right.”

  He did not move.

  “You said you are mine to command.”

  “You’re frightened, my love. It’s too much all at once.”

  She inhaled and nodded. “Too much, I think. You will hurt me. You cannot help it, but you will.”

  His grim look eased. “I can help it. And I won’t hurt you, if you’ll but trust me.” He extended a hand.

  She shut her eyes again. She had no weapons, had seen none in his chambers, but she could scream. She was not in the wilderness. In a great house, someone would hear. Someone would come to help her.

  When she opened her eyes, he had seated himself, hand still reaching for her. “Come. Come sit upon my lap. We won’t have that particular lesson tonight. I promise.”

  His tone was as flat and pompous as any tutor’s. She came and took his hand and made as if to sit across his legs.

  “No,” he said. “That is, if you please, Gracie, you will command me better if you sit...” he pushed her skirts up, lifted her and turned her facing him, straddling his lap, “like this.”

  His eyes had darkened. His mouth was grim. He seemed to be in pain.

  She had heard that men felt pain if they could not relieve themselves. She had heard that lesson: do not excite a man; do not tempt him past a point of justice.

  Justice. She’d done nothing to tempt Rigo. She’d done nothing but resist Rigo. She’d all but put a sack over her head to be modest around him. If Rigo had felt pain, it had not been her fault.

  Charley’s expression shifted again. “It’s me, Gracie. It’s Charley. I won’t hurt you.”

  She nodded.

  “Look at me.”

  She searched his eyes.

  “Now look down.” He pushed her skirts higher and left his hands to cup her hips. “You see your power over me?”

  “Any woman has this power over you.”

  “And you have this power over any man.”

  “Perhaps, but I would not—”

  “I know. And I’m not such a tomcat as you might think.” His thumbs moved along her hip bones, swirling warmth into her. “Before that monster, you said you’d been kissed.”

  A shiver went through her, memories rushing in. “There were boys I danced with. There was one who took me outside and kissed me.”

  “And you liked it?”

  Heat rushed her cheeks. What she remembered was her father’s anger, and that he’d been right, and later, Rigo’s actions had proved what could have happened with that first boy, had proved the rightness of Papa’s anger.

  But that night, before the shame, she’d felt the pleasure.

  She shrugged and he quirked one eyebrow.

  “Will you take off your robe?”

  She nodded, and he pulled the bow of her belt and pushed the garment off her, letting it fall to the floor.

  His gaze burned a path from her eyes to the dark patch of hair between her legs. He had pushed the nightrail high to unveil it.

  “Ye gads, you are a dream.”

  Her heart thudded. She was a dream, until the brand was bared, and then she would be a nightmare.

  He leaned in and his soft lips distracted her, pressing, burning, nudging her with his tongue until she’d opened for him. The long, languorous kiss was demanding, convincing. Pleasure sparked through her, melting her tension, and his hands slid higher, circling her breasts. Time stood still and then galloped, mirroring her pulse, her breath. He broke away and kissed a path down her neck, tasting her breasts, taking her nipple, nightrail and all, into his mouth. Pleasure shot through her, a lightning bolt, from her breast to the point between her legs. She bucked against him, and felt his hard rod, and scooted back.

  He unlatched from her nipple and touched his forehead to hers. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No...I...” She didn’t know what to say. “Did I hurt you?”

  He chuckled, and drew back to reveal a smile. “I’m feeling no pain. Now, we’ll have a lesson.”

  “That wasn’t one?”

  “No. That is, we’ll do something new, now. May I touch you? Down there?”

  Excitement raced through her, curling and unfurling low in her belly.

  “I want to see if you are wet.”

  “Of course I’m not wet. I’m not an infant, or...” Or on her courses. She calculated in her head and looked down again.

  “You’re a talker.” He touched a finger to her and she shot up straight, arching closer. His finger slid down and pleasure arrowed through her from the point where he touched.

  Oh. He should not. It was wrong, this sort of pleasure.

  She closed her eyes against the pinpoint of sensation. Everything in her squeezed.

  His finger inched inward, freezing her breath until she finally gasped.

  “Yes.” His face was a grimace of concentration as he rubbed her, the touch silky and smooth. “Oh yes. You are just the way you should be. The way God made you to be for the man you love. Give me your finger.”

  “I won’t,” she huffed. “It is...shameful.”

  “Shameful. Did your mother say that?”

  “No.”

  “Francisca?”

  “No.”

  His finger began to move again. “It was someone who didn’t know this pleasure and didn’t want you to know it. But I tell you, Gracie, between a man and a woman marrying for love there’s no shame in pleasure, unless it’s forced, unless it causes the other pain. Do you know who taught me that? No of course you don’t, but it was my mother.”

  “Your mother talked to you about such things?”

  “Yes. Of necessity. Father was gone, and the milkmaid was after me, and Mother very shrewdly saw what was afoot. She told me everything, and let me know she did not countenance liaisons with servants. Did your mother—”

  “No. She never got to it before…well, after she said it shouldn’t have been like that. Oh.” He had slid that finger in deeper, making her clench the muscles there.

  He drew in a sharp breath and plundered her mouth again, long minutes of passionate kissing while she could do nothing but writhe atop him. New sensations started at her bud—where his thumb swept her gently, steadily, beating a pulse through her. She rose on her knees, bucking against that insidious hand, and the pleasure he stirred.

  He dropped from her mouth to her breast, moved a hand to her bottom, under the robe, kneading her, steadying her as she moved and gasped and searched for something, gripping his shoulders, choking for air.

  He nipped her neck, swiping the sensitive spot there with his tongue. �
��Oh, my love,” he mumbled. “My love. Yes. Yes.” His tongue found her other breast and suckled. “So beautiful.” He had pulled her closer, her belly rubbing his hard shaft with each up and down thrust. “That’s it. Almost there. Yes. So beautiful.”

  The murmurs grew faint. The pinpoint of pleasure bloomed in her, growing, all of her fixed on that one place while she struggled, struggled, for something, something, and…

  Pleasure burst in her, streaking through all of her nerves, pounding in wave after wave until the crashing subsided, the storm abated, and she found herself sprawled, plastered against him, her head on his shoulder.

  She lay there long moments, too stunned to speak, and became conscious that her nightrail was wet.

  In front. She sat up and looked down. His erection was gone.

  Charley’s eyes opened a fraction. “I do apologize. I couldn’t help myself.” His eyes closed again.

  He had...come. That was the word the men used. But not inside her, as Rigo had done. So she would not get with child.

  She studied his face. He looked paralyzed. Rigo had paused after each rutting to tie her up and then he had slept. She could leave now. Charley would not detain her.

  He had made sure she would not find herself with a baby. Because if there was a baby, they would marry.

  If she loved him. He had called her his love.

  She shifted on his lap. Her privates touched his leg and she almost jumped from the pleasure. She was still inflamed.

  His eyes opened again. “Give me but a few minutes.” He reached out to steady her.

  She wadded the cloth of her nightrail and wiped them both. Between her legs, there was moisture but no blood. There had been blood every time with Rigo.

  She looked into the slits of his eyes.

  He smiled. “It can work. You can have pleasure like that every time you are willing. Will you trust me?”

  “I am willing to try.” She untied the drawstring at her neck then remembered. She would expose the brand.

  “Take it off for the next lesson. You’re beautiful, all of you, just as you are, my love. My Gracie.”

  Tears burned her eyes. She cupped his cheek dragging her thumbnail through the stubble there. “My love?” she whispered.

  “And I mean it.” He pushed at the nightrail. “Take it off.”

  “Only if you are sure,” she said.

  “I’m sure.”

  He buzzed with the tension of holding back, gripped the chair, and gritted his teeth. An honorable man. A man who could exercise self-control. A man who loved her.

  She stood and peeled the nightrail over her head.

  He was up then, carrying her to the bed, and as he had done before, pressing his lips to the scar on her belly, crawling between her legs to make love to her with his tongue, there, in her scarred, wounded, most private places. Charley kissed and laved and suckled until she was wrenching the counterpane, her moans growing louder, the pleasure building.

  Her body itched to take him in.

  “Please, Charley,”

  He grunted.

  “I want you inside me.”

  He raised his head, his eyes wild. He plunged a finger into her, and then another, making her jump.

  “I will go there,” he mumbled. “After we’re married.”

  “But…Oh.”

  Pleasure swirled and crested and burst again.

  Charley rolled over and grinned at the underside of the bed canopy, tucking her close, the small part of his brain that was still working reminding him why he wouldn’t take his own pleasure inside of her.

  When he turned his head, she was staring at him, heavy lidded. A small hand touched his erection, sending it bouncing. He clamped his hand over hers.

  “This night is for you,” he said. “For your pleasure.”

  “Your pleasure will bring me pleasure.”

  He groaned and closed his eyes.

  His pleasure came seconds later and for long moments, he was lost.

  “Thank you.” Petal soft lips touched his cheek and she scratched at his beard, reminding him a gentleman should have shaved. He vaguely hoped she was not whisker-burned, but he could barely move much less mumble an apology.

  “You are a good teacher,” she teased.

  He moved a finger along her side and heard her draw in a breath.

  “Will you marry me now, Charley?”

  He opened one eye.

  Her dark eyes burned into him. “For love. Will you marry me for love? I...have grown to trust you. To love you. Not just because of this. But we can do this often, can we not?” She looked away and frowned. “I would not wish to share you though.”

  He put a finger over her mouth. “Day after tomorrow. No later.”

  “What?”

  “Our nuptials.”

  She smiled. And laughed. And crawled atop him, kissing him, stirring him anew.

  “Shall we skip the diplomatic ball tomorrow night?” she asked.

  At dinner, Father had said they would all attend. Her sudden frown and the faraway look told him she was thinking of the Duquesa.

  “The Duquesa might be there, but so will her husband. Half the world will be there. We’ll go and tell that world our plans.” He drew her to him. “Now, before you bring me back to life, I think we should sleep. Our daughter will be up in a few short hours.”

  “Our daughter.” A tear plopped onto his chest.

  He flipped her over, pulled her bottom close, his chin resting at the point on the back of her head where her plait began.

  If he had this every night of this life, he’d have no need of heaven in the next.

  He held the hand spread on the sheet in front of her and whispered his plans for their future together until her breaths evened out and he knew she was sleeping. Only then did he let himself drift off.

  Gray light was streaming in through the window when he woke.

  Gracie was still wedged next to him, her dark hair tickling his chest. He stroked it away and studied her back. The bruises were healing, quickly and well, but the skin might scar where the switch had cut.

  Her back dipped gracefully to a slim waist that led to a rounded derriere and hip.

  She stirred and lifted sleepy eyes. “Good morning, Charley.”

  No shock at waking in a man’s arms? Because she’s where she belongs.

  He pushed down his desire and said “It’s morning. We need to get you back to your chamber.”

  “Who will care?” She kissed his neck.

  Who would care? Not his brothers and their wives. Not his sister. Not the men who served his father. Not even his father, likely, if this reached an honorable conclusion. The servants were used to strange goings-on, though perhaps not this sort.

  Her servants certainly weren’t.

  “Francisca will flay me alive, if Juan doesn’t shoot me first.”

  “She wants me to marry you.”

  “She despises me.”

  “No. She wants you to keep me safe. She is very pragmatic.”

  “So you will be safely ensconced as Mrs. Everly, and she will sneak a...a tarantula, or a rattlesnake into my bed one night.”

  Gracie rolled onto her back and shook with laughter. “Her people are fierce.”

  “She is an Indian?”

  “A mestizo. Her grandmother was a Yaqui. It is a tribe from Sonora, proud warriors, all.”

  She talked then about Mexico, the mountains and deserts, the tribes and the missions, and the Pacific, Atlantic, and Caribbean ports she had visited with her parents. She had traveled widely in her world, as had he in his.

  “I long to see this new world,” he said. “I’ve been looking for a post in New Spain or whatever it is to be called now.”

  She raised herself on one elbow and frowned down at him. “You mentioned that before. You would leave England?”

  He pushed her hair back where it draped over her face. “Not without you. Not without Reina. Come here.”

  She ignored him and the
frown deepened. “I am not at all sure you should leave England.”

  His hand froze on her cheek. You, she’d said. Not we.

  Bam, bam, bam. “Señor Everly.”

  “Francisca.” Gracie clamped a hand over her mouth and giggled.

  “Señor Everly, Graciela is missing.”

  “One moment, Francisca,” he called. He leaped from the bed, found her nightrail and robe, and while she dressed, tossed on his own banyan and rummaged through his coats.

  At the door, he pulled her in for a quick kiss and thrust the jewelry box into her hand.

  The pounding started up again, this time more fiercely.

  “You will take this,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “You’ll wear it for the wedding.”

  “Yes. Tomorrow.”

  “Señor Everly.”

  “Will she be armed?”

  Gracie laughed.

  He kissed her again, turned the key, and pushed her out in front of him, like the coward he was.

  Francisca’s dark eyes were virtually unreadable, except that he didn’t see murder there.

  “You are the first to know, Francisca,” he said. “The wedding will be today.”

  Gracie’s mouth dropped, a look of panic forming. He kissed her again. “Hurry and get dressed,” he said in Spanish for Francisca’s benefit. “We must find my father. He must go with me to Doctors’ Commons and sign for you, and he’ll want to talk to you first before we go for the license.”

  And then he closed the door on her, leaned against it, and let out a whoop.

  Chapter 24

  Charley’s strong grip on her hand in this crowded carriage calmed her. The Bakeleys and the Gibsons occupied the plain carriage following theirs, and behind them came a third carriage with Lady Jane Monthorpe and the aristocratic vicar who had joined them in the afternoon, and later for the large family dinner that followed. Penderbrook had even squeezed in next to a teary-eyed Lady Jane. The lady, it seemed, loved weddings.

  Graciela had been warmly welcomed into their circle. She’d had a chance to speak more with Bink’s wife and felt an instant kinship. Paulette was lowborn, like herself, like her husband, illegitimate. Like Reina. Lord Hackwell’s charming young brother, Thomas, also a by-blow, had joined them again at Shaldon House, but was far too young for this night’s outing.