Pru twisted and turned in the glass, trying to see herself from all sides. A true beauty?
“I don’t look half nice and that’s a fact, sir, but this is all your doin’.”
Lementeur took her hand and smiled gently at her in the mirror. “Don’t you think it’s time you left that charming but unsuitable accent behind you? Do you truly need it any longer?”
Pru froze. Yet, what had she to fear from this man?
She smiled back then, a little shyly, not accustomed to being herself. “How did you find me out, sir?”
Lementeur regarded her with a slight tilt to his head. “Perfect posture. Refined grace. A voice like an angel. And when you forget yourself in a moment of temper, you hold your chin at such a haughty angle that I dare Princess Charlotte to do better.”
Pru blinked. “You are most observant, sir. I pray Sir Colin does not follow your example.”
He shook his head. “Why not simply tell him? Whatever difficulty forces this charade, he would help you out of it. He is a very admirable fellow.”
Pru sighed. It was only a soft exhalation, but Lementeur’s brows shot skyward.
“Ah. You love him. And he seeks another.”
Pru blinked away the heat behind her eyes. “It is not his fault. He only wishes to legitimize Melody.”
She clapped her fingers over her wayward mouth and gazed at Lementeur in alarm.
He only smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “My dear, I am well acquainted with Lady Melody’s . . . er, parental mysteries. Is Sir Colin so very sure of this Miss Marchant, then? You worked for her. Is she truly Melody’s mother?”
Pru shrugged miserably. “I could not say. I did not know her at that time. It is possible, I suppose. She is not very . . . self-restrained.”
Lementeur quirked a brow. “How polite. I think I preferred you before.”
She couldn’t help quirking a grin at him. “Whatever you say, guv. It bein’ your dress and all.”
He smiled back. “Delightful.” Turning, he retrieved a deep midnight-blue cloak from yet another box and swung it into a great circle over her shoulders. Then he slipped the hood carefully over her hair, so that her entire costume was concealed. “Keep that on until you’ve arrived at the ball.” He squinted playfully at her. “Mystery is everything.”
Then he stood back and regarded her with pride. “Off with you, Princess Prudence. Your prince awaits you in the carriage.”
CHAPTER 34
They arrived at the ball in a fine rented coach.
“We don’t have an invitation, so we need to look as though we belong,” Colin told her. It was almost the only thing he said to her. Of course, she remained silent, concealed in her cloak, trying her best to portray “mystery.”
Colin looked rather mysterious himself, clad in a black evening cape from Lementeur. Pru was almost as eager for his unveiling as she was for her own!
Their lack of invitation did not cause them grief, although Pru noted that the footman’s hand did go to his pocket after he allowed them entrance.
“Is there anyone you cannot bribe?”
“My family fortune is finally good for something.” Colin lifted one shoulder in a disinterested shrug. “Don’t forget to speak carefully.”
Pru nodded silently. Sir Colin had a surprise in store. She smoothed the ribbon tie of her cloak and took a deep breath as a footman approached to take their things. This was her chance to see if Colin would be attracted to the real Miss Prudence Filby!
She slipped off the cloak in a single graceful move, handed it to the waiting footman, then turned to see Colin’s reaction.
Colin froze in the act of removing his hat and cape, leaving the footman reaching for nothing at all.
She shimmered. Her gown was a clinging confection of blue silk, and the perfect counterpoint to the russet hair that tumbled from an intricate knot high on her head, flowing down her back in a mad silken cloud. There was something different about her eyes. He couldn’t decipher the mystery of feminine cosmetics, but her eyes were huge and shining.
And then there was her bosom. He’d seen those breasts in a damp shift and in a damp nightdress—
God, he loved it when Pru got wet!—but he’d never seen them displayed thus, with a barely functioning neckline not quite containing them, served up for a man’s enjoyment like sumptuous pastries on a platter.
She was entirely elegant and refined—and yet she was also more nearly naked than he’d ever seen her!
He nearly choked. “Put that cloak back on!”
She grinned at him then, much like she had grinned at him in his opium-soaked dream, like a wild pirate girl. “That’s the nicest compliment you’ve ever paid me.” She held out her arm. “Shall we dance?”
When he silently and grimly took her arm, Pru had to turn away to hide her laughter. Mystery, indeed!
The gown felt delicious, clinging sensuously to her legs as she walked into the ballroom. It had been a long time since she had felt anything but the most utilitarian fabrics against her skin. Even the fine lawn shift beneath seemed to stroke her flesh with every movement of her body. By the time she had made her way into the ballroom at Colin’s side, the heat was already rising in her blood.
It didn’t help that Colin looked magnificent. Clad in perfectly tailored black, he seemed darker and more dashing than before. He seemed to tower over lesser men and the brilliance from the chandeliers turned his fair hair to gold. He looked like a pirate prince surrounded by his minions. Then he turned to someone and smiled. The flash of white teeth against his sun-darkened skin made Pru’s heart stutter. Even his stance was different, with a haughty tilt to his head that told everyone he was a man of substance here.
Pru faltered in her steps, suddenly unsure of herself. She’d known he was a gentleman. She’d realized he had a certain amount of wealth and status . . . but it was something else to see it with her own eyes.
Then he turned and his gaze locked on hers. He smiled as he bowed. “My apologies. I do not believe we have been introduced. Sir Colin Lambert. And you are? If I am not too forward?”
He was being silly, and bold, and far too flirtatious—an aspect of him she had never before seen.
Throwing caution and the past and even the future to the winds, she curtsied deeply in response. “You are bold, but all great adventurers are, are they not?” She gave him a dimpled smile when he took her hand to help her rise. “Introductions are for people who worry too much about the morrow.”
You are not the only one who can be too bold!
The flash of humor in his green eyes was reward enough. He swept her into his arms and they began to dance.
With Pru swaying gracefully in his arms, Colin enjoyed dancing more than he ever had before. She was a good dancer, moving to the precise steps as if she’d been born to them.
It wasn’t long until other men began to appear to beg an introduction. Pru greeted them gravely and politely thanked them for their thoughtfulness, but would dance with no one but Colin.
He knew it was only so that her ruse would not be penetrated, but her obvious preference made him want to beat his chest! Dance after dance, they whirled about the floor, ostensibly searching for Chantal, yet unable to take their eyes from each other.
Abruptly, Colin was no longer in a hurry to find Chantal. This was the last time he would be with Pru like this, he realized.
Just one night. Just this moment, I want to believe that it is she who awaits me in bed tonight. Tomorrow. Forever.
She seemed more than willing to play along with his fantasy. She danced, she laughed, she sipped champagne and fended off suitors as if she’d been training for this night her entire life.
And then it finally penetrated his dream state. She was very good at such mimicry.
Too good.
Even Chantal wasn’t that good.
He halted in mid-turn and stared down at her. Pru smiled up at him, her eyes laughing. “Did you forget the steps, Sir Colin?”
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He shook his head slightly. “Who are you?”
She drew back, her brow crinkling. “What?”
He looked down at them both, at how her hands were placed perfectly, at how her head was lifted at just the right angle, remembering that not once, not even one single time, had she stepped on his foot.
“Who the bloody hell are you?”
She backed slowly out of his hold, her eyes wide and her lips parted. Then she turned without a word and slipped off into the whirling dancers.
Pru didn’t stop running until she had run from the crowd and even from the house itself. She took refuge in the dark gardens, fleeing down the gravel paths until the fine corset took its toll on her ability to breathe.
There was a stone bench nearby. Pru sank down onto it. Her lungs were nearly bursting and her brain buzzed with champagne. She didn’t hear the footsteps crunching on the gravel until far too late.
It wasn’t until she raised her head from her hands that she realized that he stood directly before her. Sitting up straight, she lifted her chin to glare at him. “You needn’t loom so, Mr. Lambert. Even a weed needs a bit o’ sun to grow.”
He didn’t smile as she’d thought he might. His expression as he gazed at her was harder than she’d ever seen on him before. She edged backward warily on the bench.
“It is night. No sun.” His voice was clipped.
She looked away. “Now you’re just bein’ particular.”
“Yes. Particular.”
The gravel on the path crunched beneath his feet as he took a step closer. If she wished to look at him now she would have to tilt her head all the way back. This was not a problem, for she most assuredly did not want to look at him. She looked at his boots, gleaming in the moonlight. Fascinating . . . and much easier to bear than the strange, considering expression upon his face.
He stood so close she could hear the rasp of his inhalation. “Miss Filby, how is it that you happen to know how to dance the quadrille?”
“Even servants dance, sir. Belowstairs, if we can ’ear the music.”
He was silent for a moment. “How did you know just the perfect depth to curtsy to the Duke of Clements?”
Blast. She ought to have fumbled that. “Did I? I just did what I seen Chant—Miss Marchant do on stage, sir.”
The silence stretched out this time. Blue shine, silver flickers. Stars pasted on the void. The chill in her belly grew.
“When you speak, Miss Filby, why is there not the slightest hint of commoner in your speech—not even a fragment of a hint?”
“I’m a right good mimic, I am.”
“Indeed. My question is, which speech is the mimicry and which is the tongue you were born to?”
The soles of his shoes grated on the pebbles again. His boots disappeared beneath the hem of her skirts, his toes just barely contacting hers.
She raised her gaze now, for she had no shiny leather on which to fix her eyes. Lifting her head slowly, she followed those black-clad legs up. Perhaps she could meet his eyes and not give anything away, perhaps she could keep her wits about her long enough to—
She gasped aloud. Oh, heavens.
Even in the dimness she could see that his trousers were tight about his enormous erection.
I covet you.
Her body sounded a responding chord. Yes. Here. Now.
She turned her face away with a jerk and then went so still that she could hear her own pulse pound in her ears. Had he heard her gasp? Did he know what she’d seen?
If she touched it would it feel like flesh or steel?
As the thought ran through her mind like a sneak thief in flight, slipping in and out of the dark places, her body gave a deep shudder in response.
“Are you chilled?” His voice was raspy now. He sounded nearly as breathless as she was.
She shook her head quickly, not trusting herself to speak, not trusting her voice not to give her away as his did.
An instant of contact, feather light. His fingertips pushing back a wisp of her hair that had fallen awry. Her heart nearly stopped its furious pounding. Oh, God, don’t let him touch me. If he touches me I shall leap upon him and devour him whole.
Please touch me.
CHAPTER 35
Pru’s champagne-glamoured thoughts bubbled in her mind. While her mind was busy, it seemed her hand decided to act on its own. She watched, as if from a distance, as her hand, white in the dimness, moved outward toward him, not stopping—oh, my, where was this leading?—until it found its home covering the bulge in his breeches.
Too far.
Or was it? Had he not touched her there, touched her and more?
“Fair is fair,” she whispered to herself. She heard a gasp from him, a sort of desperate laughing sound, but she ignored it. This was between her hand and his groin.
He was hard and hot, even through the fabric she touched. Her head tilted to one side in bemusement as her rogue hand traced the outline of his swollen shape. It grew even as her fingers stroked it lightly. A deep groan from him seemed to wake her other hand to action. It floated through the air to join the first one, pressing and stroking and—
What was this? Buttons? Yes, on either side of his trapped organ, there were two rows of buttons.
Let’s see what happens . . .
The buttons were no work at all. Nor was the drawstring of the drawers beneath. Then, like a gift given with a deep heartfelt gasp, his erection sprang into her hands.
Cock, Chantal had named it. Cock, indeed. Proud and strong and so absolutely part of him.
A marvelous development, all told.
Her wayward fingers enfolded him, both hands, yet there was more. He was so rigid, so hard yet sensuous, like a sword wrapped in silk. His long finger had delved into her and driven her mad. What would this mighty weapon do to her?
A deep shudder traveled her body, starting in that very center place.
Cunt, Chantal had called it.
Cock and Cunt. Sword and Sheath. Meant for one another.
Oh, yes.
Her entire body now seemed to be under the tutelage of her rogue hands, for she observed that she was now leaning forward.
She kissed the tip of him. He gasped and jerked in her hands, but she would not free him until she was done with him. Not that he seemed truly interested in pulling away.
She kissed him again, this time with her lips soft and parted. The tip of him was damp. She licked him from her lips. As she did so, her tongue accidentally rolled over the blunt end of him. His hand landed in her hair, warm and pleading but not forcing her closer. No, she did that on her own, falling closer to him until the rounded head of him slipped between her wetted lips and into her mouth.
He tasted of salt and something new, something she’d never tasted before. Sharp and stimulating, like a spice. She drew on the head of him experimentally, sucking gently as her tongue explored the blunt end, the edges of the rounded cap, the curious slit at the tip.
“Oh, sweet heaven . . .” His voice was guttural, deep and groaning and helpless.
Was he helpless before her? Truly? How marvelous.
Testing this theory, she wrapped her hands tightly around the base of him and guided more of his length into her mouth. How deep could she take him? He filled her mouth until he pressed nearly into her throat, yet there was still more of him left outside. Reluctantly, she began to withdraw from the experiment.
He cried out, a sound of surprise and ecstasy combined. She’d forgotten to release the suction, she realized. Did that give him pleasure?
She drove him deep into her mouth again, then pulled very slowly away, sucking. As she drew near the end of him, she let her tongue free to slide over and around him, tasting that sharp flavor once more.
He made that sound again. Out loud, as if he had no care or awareness of being heard. Curious, she looked up at him to see that his head was thrown back. One hand was tangled in her hair and the other was fisted at his side.
Wanting to mak
e him cry out for her more, she sucked him again and again, sliding him in and out of her mouth, tasting him, tasting power, making him gasp and moan and beg. The great slippery size of him in her mouth and in her hands made her grind her own body down into the bench. The noises coming from him made her feel hungry and helpless as well.
He moaned. “Oh, yes . . . Oh, Pru!” Abruptly, his hand fisted in her hair and his entire body spasmed as his cock jumped and throbbed inside her mouth. The taste of him flowed over her tongue, strong and thick and creamy. She swallowed out of instinct, swallowed while he remained inside her mouth, making him gasp once more. He stood there, shuddering and gasping, his hand in her hair, for a long moment. Then he seemed to catch his breath. One warm hand wrapped around her jaw and he pulled himself from her mouth.
Still a bit lost in the dark and the heat and the taste of him, it took Pru a moment to realize that it was over.
Bloody hell. She was still thrumming with heat and ache and want.
Colin put himself away and rebuttoned his breeches, trying to still his own spinning thoughts. So good, so damned good—the hot wetness of her mouth, her sweet tongue, her intent to give him pleasure—
But wrong. He ought to have stopped her. He never should have allowed it.
When he’d put himself together again, he turned back to her. She sat on the bench, her hands braced on either side of her, her eyes wide as she gazed back at him.
Then she absently licked her lips.
His cock throbbed in response, as if she’d called it by name. She’d swallowed him. How flattering.
I never even kissed her. How rude of me.
In one step, he was down on his knees in the gravel where he’d stood before and his mouth was on hers. A simple thank-you kiss, soft and sweet.
Until she moaned into his mouth.
Oh, no. No. Absolutely not.
Oh, yes.
His hands came up to wrap around her jaw, holding her still as he thrust his tongue deep into her mouth, finding the hot depths. His cock had known those depths. The knowledge drove him wild.
He felt her hands fist in his weskit, pulling him close. Fighting for sense, he lifted his mouth from hers and dropped his face into her neck, panting. Think. For God’s sake, think!
Rogue in My Arms: The Runaway Brides Page 24
