A Rakes Guide to Pleasure

by Victoria Dahl

  "Why?"

  "He wanted to build me into a man, and he had to break me completely to do that. He engineered my utter humilia­tion. My own father. Gave his tacit approval for society to mock me. Made it acceptable to laugh at me, point.

  "But I rescinded that approval two years later when I became duke. It was no easy struggle, Emma. I built a fortress around myself, and you have destroyed it."

  "Hart. . . I'm sorry. I never meant—"

  "But that is my point, Emma. I do not care. Don't you see? I simply don't give a damn. I just keep wanting you."

  "You can't. I don't want you to."

  "He made me into someone different, but you have brought me back to myself. You can't leave me now. Come to Somerhart. Stay as my guest." He swallowed hard. "I'll keep my hands to myself. Show you there is more between us than lust." His hand stilled. "Though I will leave my bed­room door unlocked, just in case."

  She smiled as sleep pulled hard at her melting mind. "I won't marry you," she murmured. "I won't." Then she let his heartbeat lull her into dreams. Dreams of a man who could not love her, but did.

  Chapter 25

  "Emma," he whispered into her ear. Emma shooed him away with her hand. She was warm and so tired . . . and Hart was shaking her awake.

  "What is it?" she cried in a hoarse voice.

  "It is dawn. Time to go back to your room."

  She waved her hand in his direction and clenched her eyes shut. "As if your servants don't know. The maids have begun leaving sconces burning in the hallway all night. They don't want me to trip." She curled tighter and her hip nudged a very interesting part of his body.

  He took that as an invitation to pull her tight against him. "Then marry me. Make me respectable again in my house­hold's eyes."

  "I don't want to talk about this now."

  "You never want to talk about it. You've been here a month and you avoid the subject at every turn."

  "Yes."

  "And yet you sneak into my bed every night."

  "I'd hardly call it sneaking. I simply stroll down and knock."

  "You don't knock."

  "All right, I'm going to my room now. I won't get any more sleep here."

  Hart's arm held her tight when she tried to move. She struggled and got nothing for her efforts but a body that throbbed to excited life. One of his hands was clamped around her upper thigh. His strength sizzled through her. His arousal was a hard brand against her bottom.

  She arched, trying to get away and knowing the struggle would press her more firmly into that length. His grip tight­ened for a moment, then he wrapped his leg over hers to hold her in place. His long fingers slid between her thighs and snuck higher.

  The edge of his hand slipped easily along her wet sex, shaking her toward complete arousal. Emma inhaled on a moan. She pushed against him with her feet and he pressed more weight against her legs. She felt helpless . . . and some­how he knew how much she liked it.

  "Don't," she moaned, even as she eased her thighs open.

  He ignored her, thank God, and plunged two fingers deep. "Hart," she cried.

  "Marry me, Emma." His fingers stroked a slow, hard rhythm. "No other man can know you like this."

  "I don't. . . I don't want anyone to know me like this."

  "Little liar. I know very well what you want." He pressed his body against her, rolling her to her stomach.

  When his fingers slid out of her, she sobbed. But he quickly made it better. He pulled her to her knees and was sliding deep inside her before she could even think to ask for it.

  He did know her, knew her so well he could bring her to climax within a few heartbeats or keep her on the edge for a full hour. This morning he was clearly taking advantage of this knowledge; her body was flying fast toward its peak, pushed by his brutal strokes and powerful grip. Within min­utes they'd both collapsed to the bed, sweat-slick and gasping.

  Emma cleared her throat, knowing she'd be hoarse again today. She blushed to think of the servants who must have heard her.

  "I'm done humoring you," Hart gasped. "We'll marry in one month. I'll post the banns tomorrow."

  She laughed in disbelief. "Post banns? Surely you can afford a special license. Not that I'll marry you."

  "I'll post them in all the London papers. I'm proud of you and I'll not have anyone think otherwise. No special license."

  "Hart, nothing has changed."

  "Everything has changed. You're in my home, in my bed every night. Careful as we are, you could be carrying our child right now. And I love you. I love you."

  She shook her head, pressing her lips tight together.

  "You're afraid, Emma. Just afraid. But I am a risk worth taking. You claim to think I will be spectacularly unfaith­ful, but put that gambler's brain to use. I'm a man of strong physical needs, but I'm clearly a romantic at heart. For God's sake, I proposed to someone else's mistress in a fit of irrepressible love!"

  Emma held back an unwilling smile.

  "Yes, I've been with many women, but. . . Emma?" He touched her chin and gently turned her face toward his, caught her in that sky blue gaze. "I was never really with them. I was not there. There is so much more pleasure in trust. I am myself with you and I'd rather die than lose that."

  Her eyes burned with tears. She seemed to be constantly close to weeping these days, and surely that was a bad sign. "I am myself with you and it terrifies me."

  "Why?"

  "I don't—" She choked on the words and had to start again. "I don't want to be him." His thumb stroked her cheek.

  "I'm afraid I'll be like him," she said again, relieved to have said it, finally.

  "You won't."

  She turned away from his touch and buried her face in his shoulder. "I am wicked with you."

  "Yes, you are." She shook her head hard.

  "Just as you should be. I will be your husband. How sad if you could not be wicked with me."

  "Other wives are not—"

  "Other husbands are not me. And everyone, Emma . . . everyone wants to be tied up with silk ribbons on occasion."

  "You!" she gasped and reared back to hit him. He'd prom­ised never to even mention it. His hands caught hers in an easy grip.

  "Everyone," he whispered and kissed her closed lips. His eyes sparkled down at her, inviting her to laugh, and Emma's outrage slowly floated away. Wicked man.

  "Even you?" she asked and was rewarded with a slow, wide smile that called to mind fallen angels. His eyes fell to her mouth.

  "Even me."

  Oh, that might be worth any risk at all. Hart's eyes sparked with triumph. The man could see everything about her. "And children?" she blurted out.

  "We will do our best to wait until you're ready. That will be your decision. It is a gamble, but. . . Make this your last, great gamble, Emma." He kissed the knuckles of her left hand. "The best bet you've ever placed. Risk everything on me. Be afraid if you must, Emma, but love me."

  "I . . ." Her stupid heart was doing happy flips in her chest. "I. . ." Oh, she could not do it.

  But Hart knew her far too well. He tossed one more wager on the table. "Ten thousand a year in pin money to sweeten the pot."

  Her mouth trembled into a smile. She did not care about the money, but it was so much easier to pretend greed while she bared her tender soul. "Done," she whispered.

  "Done?"

  "I mean, yes. Yes, I will marry you. And I will . . . I. . ." His eyes shone with joy. "I will love you and be very afraid while I'm doing it."

  But when he sighed and kissed her, Emma felt not a stitch of fear. Instead she felt hopeful and strong and very, very lucky. But she was not above hedging her bets. "If you ever betray me, I will move Stimp from your London household to Somerhart."

  Hart's jaw dropped in mock horror.

  "He has expressed an interest in training to be your driver. Perhaps even your valet."

  Real horror replaced his acting. "Well, there is your insur­ance then, Emma. Trust me to be completely d
evoted."

  "I will." And strangely enough, she knew that she would.