A Rakes Guide to Pleasure

by Victoria Dahl

  "Your Grace," the lady murmured, and all the men in the room followed suit. "Are you up for a rousing game of pins this fine morning?"

  He didn't bother answering. Her eyes glinted her lack of goodwill. She wasn't surprised to see him.

  "Carry on, gentlemen," Lady Denmore laughed in the face of his silence. "We've a match to finish." The men didn't move. "My turn then?"

  She fetched a new bottle from the rows near the wall and replaced the broken one. She repositioned all of them into another neat triangle before she fetched the ball and walked jauntily back to the table. "Good luck?" she suggested, but no one complied. The men's eyes darted toward Somerhart.

  Nothing untoward had happened as far as Hart could tell, but all of them had been thinking about it. Their guilty eyes spoke volumes.

  Lady Denmore shrugged and held the ball up to her own mouth for a kiss. Her lips brushed slowly over the stitching and, one by one, the men's eyes shifted back to her. Hart felt his face stiffening. He couldn't quite tell what his expression was, but he knew it was unpleasant. She was deliberately dancing along the edge of scandal, creating an aura of wickedness that would fuel the talk about her into fire. And she was dragging Hart deep into the flames. He should never have set foot in the room. He should have turned his back on her and walked away.

  The bottles clinked. Four fell to the carpet without damage.

  "Four!" she cried and Richard Jones offered halfhearted congratulations.

  "Who will challenge me?" Her lips curved into an entic­ing, flirtatious smile. "No one? Mr. Jones?"

  He looked around at the others before he shook his blond head and bowed in her direction. "Your match, Lady Den­more."

  "I think," Somerhart growled, "it's past time you men found your beds for the morning."

  "Just so," Marsh agreed, with an overloud laugh that the other men echoed as they each collected their winnings. The largest pile remained when the group quit the room. Some­one closed the door.

  Lady Denmore calmly went to collect the empty bottles of wine. After she'd placed them back into the line against the wall, she began to fold up the edges of the thick rough-spun cloth that had been laid out for the game. Broken glass shifted and clinked.

  Somerhart forced his jaw to unclench. "Will you do any­thing for money?"

  Her mouth held its impersonal smile as she continued her work.

  "Because you seem quite hungry for coin. And I have a lot of it."

  She gave a nod and dusted off her hands. "And?"

  "And if you will do anything for it, you should simply tell me. I'm sure we could come to an arrangement."

  Her smile widened until her teeth showed, but the woman refused to look at him. She stared down at the mess she'd made. "Do you think I find it charming to be called a whore, Your Grace?"

  Goddamn it. Somerhart looked around, but there was no wall close enough to punch. "I waited for you at breakfast," he growled instead. "I did not expect to find you hidden away with a group of young bucks making a spectacle of yourself."

  "No? Well, I think I've told you before that you are quite naive when it comes to my behavior."

  "I am not naive, damn it. I am disgusted. You will drag me down with you."

  "Oh, my. I suggest you remove yourself from my presence then. There will only be more of this. Gambling. Flirting. Wine before luncheon. Keeping company with rakes and for­tune hunters. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if I were utterly disgraced long before the Season even begins. And I will drag you down with me, Your Grace. I promise you that."

  She finally met his gaze, and her hazel eyes flashed scorn. That smile, that damned smile, mocked him in every way.

  "You were a very different person yesterday," he said.

  "As were you. Charming. And kind."

  Somerhart winced and shook his head. "Is that what this was? A lesson?"

  "Not for you, Your Grace. For me."

  "How so?" he asked her, but his stomach felt hollowed out.

  "Yesterday you meant to be charming and you were. But charm is not character, and I will not be seduced by pretense."

  "No? What will you be seduced by then? Youth? Drunk­enness? A ridiculous game?"

  "Coin?" she suggested.

  Her smirk coaxed fury into his blood. That little smirk of self-righteousness. He hadn't seen it for a long while, but it had graced the faces of many of his peers ten years before. "I don't need coin to have you," he snapped. "You can claim modesty, or whatever the hell reason you want, but we both know I don't need coin. You want this, Lady Denmore, just as much as I do."

  Blood rushed to her face. She started to speak, but Hart cut the air with his hand. "You may mock all you like, but your words are nothing more than a shield, and a paltry one at that."

  "Wanting something doesn't make it—"

  "Oh, but it does for someone like you. You are not in the business of restraining yourself. You do what you like, and you will do this too."

  "I won't." Her jaw trembled, but there were no tears in her eyes.

  Hart moved toward her and watched her back away. Her hips hit the carved edge of the heavy mahogany table; sev­eral coins slid from her pile and clanked into each other.

  "Why do all this?" He eased closer. Her fingers gripped the wood. "Just for money? Why not simply marry?"

  "I-I won't marry." Her knuckles turned white as her lips flushed a deeper shade of pink.

  "Why not? You already married for money once, though it doesn't seemed to have helped much. Or did you lose his fortune at the tables?"

  She shook her head. He'd reached her full skirts now; the pretty fabric pressed against his black trousers. Hart stood stock-still and looked her over. She looked so clean and fresh, completely out of place in this room that smelled of whisky and stale cigars. She looked like morning, like innocence stolen from a garden and set down in hell. He was over­whelmed with the urge to make her match her surroundings.

  "Lady Denmore," he whispered, listening to the way her breath rushed from her throat. Her breasts pressed high with every pant. She wasn't frightened. She was aroused, nearly as much as he, thrilled with the heat of his anger.

  "Lift your skirts," Hart rasped.

  "What? No. I—"

  "Do as I say. Lift your skirts."

  She shook her head again, but she could hardly breathe now, her panting was shallow and far too fast.

  "Your dress," he ordered, and her hands sank slowly to the soft muslin at her thighs. She grasped the fabric and pulled her skirt up to her calves, and Hart's cock swelled to a glori­ous ache. Blood rushed low to bring all his nerves to scream­ing life.

  "More."

  She jumped a little at the harsh word, but her hands obeyed. She lifted the skirt higher, then shifted her grip to pull it higher still. Hart saw the plain tops of her pink stock­ings, and then the smooth skin at the inside of her knees. Then her thighs. By the time he saw the lace edge of her drawers, Hart's legs were weak.

  He reached for her waist and lifted her gently onto the table.

  "I won't be your lover," she protested, but her hands clutched the lapels of his gray jacket.

  "Oh, I'd never take you here, like this." He curled one hand around the back of her cool neck and pulled her closer. "Actually, I would. But not the first time. The first time I won't risk being interrupted. Spread your knees," he added, deliberately echoing her own scornful words.

  She spread her knees wider and Hart moved between them.

  "Somerhart. . ."

  "Call me Hart. And I. . ." He lowered his mouth to hers. "I will call you Emma." Her mouth opened, her tongue licked out to meet his. Lust burned through him, sensitizing his skin. He kissed her deep and hard until her knees clutched at his hips. She kissed him even harder, worked her hands under his coat to dig her nails into his ribs.

  The woman was fighting a rough battle with herself and knew that she would lose. Hart recognized denial. He'd lived with it for a decade, and he could just as easily recognize the fissure
s and cracks of weakness in her will. He was here, after all, despite his bitter words about scandal and pride. He'd fought himself and lost, and he'd be damned if he'd grant any mercy now.

  He took a handful of her skirts in his hand and pulled them higher. When he touched her thigh, she was already trembling, shaking in anticipation of his touch. Hart let his fingers spread, let them experience the texture he'd won­dered at. Oh, yes, her muscles were tight beneath that soft skin, straining. He bit her bottom lip gently before he broke the kiss. "Tell me what you want." He stroked higher, ran his thumb back and forth at the edge of her drawers.

  "No," she sighed.

  He slipped his hand beneath the warm fabric and rubbed over the softest skin he'd ever felt. . . surely the softest. His fingers brushed damp curls. Emma gasped.

  "Tell me."

  "No."

  "I'll not have you accuse me of heartless seduction when you want this as much as I. You're already slick, aren't you? Wet and beautiful. Wanting."

  She was shaking her head, eyes clenched shut, when Hart went to his knees. He kissed the inside of her thigh, dragged his mouth up the tense line of muscle and tendon until she sobbed. "I thought about this last night. Dreamed of your taste, of you pressing yourself to my mouth. I pleasured myself to this fantasy. Tell me, Emma."

  "Oh, God."

  He nibbled higher.

  Emma sobbed, "Oh, please."

  "Please, what?"

  "Please. Touch me. There."

  His hands shook against her skin, a separate trembling from her own. He breathed out hard and watched her jump at the sensation. "You've said you won't be my lover."

  "I won't. Just touch me, you bastard."

  Hart chuckled. "Cheeky wench." He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the fabric and found it damp and fragrant. Emma cried out as if he'd done much more. He reached for her drawers and untied the waist, pulled them down, pressed her knees together and pulled them off completely. When he pushed her legs open again, he was treated to the sight of her sex, pink and wet. All for him. A shudder of need raced through him.

  "Please," Emma whispered, but he needed no further en­couragement, and doubted he would have stopped for any­thing. He smoothed his palms up her white thighs, until they met at her sex. He feathered both thumbs up and down, up and down, over plumpness and heat and dark, dark curls. She rocked back, balanced on her elbows, back arching with shock.

  God, he wanted to drive deep into her right now. Take her here, on the table, spend himself into the core of her. But he wouldn't. Not yet. He'd meant what he said about being interrupted, and yet. . .

  The idea that the door could open at any moment, that anyone could walk in and find him cradled between her legs . . . Hart's mind raced with arousal as his blood pumped harder, faster.

  His fingers spread her open for his mouth.

  The barest touch of his tongue and she was panting, "Yes, yes."

  He explored gently at first, taking in her intoxicating scent, the delicate texture of her need. Her taste flooded his tongue and made him want more. He probed into her, then deeper when she groaned her approval. But when he worked his way up to that tight bud of her clitoris, Emma cried out, a deep groan that couldn't quite be contained by her clenched teeth. He lapped at that spot again, and smiled when her fingers curled cruelly into his hair. "Yes!' she moaned. "There."

  As if he couldn't tell. Hart chuckled against her flesh and rewarded her demands with a firmer touch. She shuddered and pushed herself higher against his mouth.

  "Hart." Her voice was a high, breathless keen. "I've wanted this . . ."

  God, he'd wanted this too. This and so much more. Almost from the moment they'd been introduced. He slipped one finger inside her. She bucked beneath him, trying to hold back a scream. Her flesh clutched at him, and, oh if it were his cock . . . pushing in, finding its way into that tightness. He suckled at her little bud, felt her muscles tightening, felt his need spiraling higher.

  Hart looked up, expecting to find her blind, reaching for her peak, but he was shocked to meet her gaze. She was watching him, any trace of hesitance long dissolved in plea­sure. Her eyes were narrowed, glinting. Her lips parted before her breath, but they curled up at the corners, hinting at satisfaction and demand. She didn't look away from his gaze. Instead, her eyes narrowed even further and glittered with wickedness.

  That kind of boldness deserved a reward. Hart closed his lips around her, suckling, and slid another finger into her body. Emma threw her head back with a grimace and a scream. She tried to back away, but it was too late. Her hips jerked and strained. Hart's name was torn from her throat in a hoarse scream.

  He let her go when her hips finally fell back to the table, then he laid his cheek against her hot thigh and tried to calm himself down. Not easy given the view, but he tried. That glance into her eyes . . .

  He'd recognized her. They were kindred spirits. Depraved and wicked and trying to deny it to the world. But she'd liked it. She'd liked being ordered about, liked being set on a table and devoured like a candied treat. The danger and the de­pravity. Whatever reason she had for denying herself, it had nothing to do with what she wanted. And Hart understood that completely.

  His understanding helped him gather the will to raise his hands to her crumpled skirts and ease the fabric down her thighs. A quick check of the floor and he had her pale pink drawers in hand.

  Emma snapped from her daze. She sat forward and slid to the ground so quickly that Hart was forced to scoot back. He fell to his backside, suddenly struck with the image of how he must look: sprawled on the floor with a cockstand, a pair of pink drawers in his fist. Utterly ridiculous. Corrupt. De­praved. Hart couldn't help but grin.

  His lover didn't seem to appreciate his good humor. She glared at him, clearly wishing she could roast him with her eyes, then swooped down and snatched the delicate garment from his fingers, muttering something under her breath. Hart heard the word "obnoxious" quite clearly.

  She looked fetchingly enraged as she turned her back and stepped into her underclothes. "You tremble quite keenly, my dearest Emma."

  "Are you trying to tempt me to murder?"

  "No, but something just as impulsive."

  "Maiming?"

  "Hmm. No, not that. One more guess."

  "You." She spun about and speared him with a glare. "You needn't be so ridiculously jolly. Not only is it completely absurd on your ducal countenance, but your happiness is premature. I will not be your lover. Your work was in vain."

  "Well, not for you, I hope. It seemed quite fruitful."

  She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "What is the matter with you? You're positively . . ." She waved a hand in a tight circle. "This isn't amusing."

  "No." Hart shook his head and finally bothered with pushing up to his feet. "It's not amusing. It's delightful." He pulled her into his arms before she could shout whatever she meant to shout. The sound died against his lips. He kissed her soundly, and when he let her go, she blinked hard and touched her fingers to her lips.

  "I won't be your lover," she whispered.

  Hart inclined his head. "I believe that you could resist me, Emma, but I don't believe you can resist your own nature."

  Her pink cheeks paled considerably at that.

  "I assume you haven't dined this morning. May I escort you to the breakfast room?"

  Emma shook her head. She turned purposefully away to see to her winnings, then brushed past him without a word. He followed her toward the door, but as her hand reached for the knob, the door opened on a silent rush of air.

  "Oh!" a startled maid gasped and dropped into a curtsy so quickly that she almost fell. "Your pardon, ma'am! Sir!"

  "For God's sake," Emma muttered, and the girl backed away. But Emma wasn't glaring at the maid, she was glaring at the doorknob and then at Hart. "Do not ever accuse me of indiscretion again, Somerhart. You've surpassed me."

  "So I have," he chuckled, feeling lighter than he had in years.

  The thi
ck carpet muffled any satisfaction Emma could have taken from stomping back and forth across the floor of her room. Her pacing sounded peaceful instead of agitated, and she longed to smash something against the wall just for the racket it would make. And every frustrating step was a reminder of the new sensitivity between her legs, the aching satisfaction that had turned her insides to liquid.

  Good God, she wanted more. More, more, more, which was exactly what she'd always feared. He'd awakened the wickedness lurking just beneath the surface of her skin. She wanted to have him again, now. Then stay in his bed, languid and nude, awaiting his return from dinner. Give him any­thing he demanded. Sleep with him, wake with him. She wanted to luxuriate in her body with his.

  Emma pressed a hand to her hot forehead and squeezed her eyes shut. She needed to regain her control, what little there had been of it. But she'd never dreamed that his touch could be so much more magical than her own. And his mouth . . .

  "Oh, God, his mouth," she groaned.

  She should leave. She should. Run away before sunset and fly back to her cold little town house in London. But gentle­men were losing money at this party as quickly as she'd lost her willpower. She'd won nearly three hundred pounds in two days. She couldn't walk away from that kind of profit. It was only one more day. Surely she could persevere.

  But she'd thought herself hardened against him this morn­ing, and arrogance had gotten the better of her. The enjoy­ment of driving him mad, flirting with those men, needling him with her insolence. And, oh, he'd been so angry, and she'd loved that too, his blazing eyes and rough demands.

  She'd never responded so to other men's more gentle se­ductions. How could Hart know that? What other lady would melt with lust when ordered to raise her skirts? Emma shud­dered to think what she would have done if he'd pushed her further. Thrown her careful plans to the wind, at the least, and that only the start of her descent.

  If she'd ever doubted that her father's tainted blood flowed in her veins, she had her proof.

  Her only consolation was the very stricture of the lies she'd told. Her deception would force her to leave London before a life of sin became normal. As long as she could keep from his bed until the ton returned to the city for par­liament, she'd have no choice but to leave, to disappear, before anyone from Cheshire appeared to question her story. But maybe . . . in the meantime . . . if she could just get him to touch her a little more.