To Challenge the Earl of Cravenswood (Wicked Wagers 3)

by Bronwen Evans

  Annoyingly, Amy looked relieved. “If you’re unwell, of course you’re excused.”

  Sabine concurred and quickly arranged for the Comte to help Amy with her music. Henry was quickly forgotten as Sabine organized Amy’s recital, and with purposeful intent he quietly exited the drawing room and made his way upstairs.

  Now all he had to do was find Amy’s room and confiscate the drawings before they fell into the wrong hands. Then he’d show Marcus his evidence and make him see sense. She could already be with child.

  He did know what he’d have to do. He’d offer for her. He would not let Sabine’s or Amy’s plight become public. It would hurt too many people.

  It didn’t take him long to reach Amy’s room. Sabine, or was it Caitlin, made sure he knew where Amy’s room was the minute he’d arrived for the house party.

  With a fervative look up and down the corridor, Henry placed an ear to her door, checking the room was empty before letting himself in. Upon entry he stilled, assailed with emotions. He was immediately arrested by the feminine sights and smells. Luckily Amy’s maid had left one candle burning. It was enough light to allow him to search with ease.

  To the left stood the bed, a large four-poster that required small steps to ascend. The sheer curtains were untied, ready for their mistress to slink into the bed and slumber.

  He breathed deep. Under the window was her writing desk, and next to that stood a low dresser with an oval mirror. A vase of white lilies, their scent perfuming the air, reminded him of her. Her skin carried the same perfume.

  Desire clenched his gut. Memories of the way Amy’s body molded to his, how he’d breathed her in, set his body on edge. Even knowing the way she’d behaved with his friend, and that she loved another, he still reacted to her allure. No wonder Marcus could not resist her.

  Cursing himself, he quickly closed the door behind him, crushing his response under a wave of righteous anger. He didn’t have much time to find the drawings. If anyone found him in Amy’s room—quite frankly the problem would be solved. He’d be forced to marry her and this mess could be put to bed.

  However, while his body wanted her more than any other woman he’d ever known, his heart balked at marrying a woman in love with another. A woman who could behave so dishonorably.

  Chapter Nine

  God damn it to hell. It should be simple enough to find drawings. He’d searched her writing table. While it contained paper it certainly didn’t contain any drawings, especially not of an intimate nature.

  He searched her luggage but the cases were empty. He’d even entered her dressing room and rummage through her under garments and other clothes.

  Stifling a sigh he calmed his impatience. He still had time. Think! Where would a young lady hide incriminating evidence of an affair?

  He stood in the middle of her bedchamber and drunk in the essence of Amy. The room was as neat as one of Prince Regent’s hedge rows. Nothing was out of place. He recognized this trait in Amy. Her appearance was immaculate. The picture of the perfect duke’s daughter.

  How she had them all fooled.

  He cocked his head to one side and considered the only piece of furniture he’d not yet searched. Her bed.

  He picked up the lighted candle from the dresser and moved closer. He put it on the side table next to the bed. Something caught his eye. A piece of bed linen hanging down. The rest of the linen was tucked under the mattress with almost military procession. Why was this piece loose?

  Pushing the curtain aside he sat on the edge of the bed and lay back, propped on her pillows. His arm hung down the side of the mattress. It hung in exactly the same location as the stray linen. With certainty his hand slipped under the mattress and his fingers gripped paper.

  Success.

  With trepidation he pulled Amy’s private etchings into the light. His muscles tightened, he had to force himself to look. Almost with one eye closed he drew the first image closer.

  “Bloody hell.” He caught his breath—every muscle he possessed froze. His mouth dried as he realized what, or more importantly, who, he was staring at. He sat up. His wits had brutally focused.

  They were images of a naked man.

  The man was very clearly him.

  He began to leaf through her work. His body hummed with shock and then amusement and then with blinding desire.

  Amy had talent. The images were intricately drawn. The lines and shading making the images come alive.

  The drawings were very erotic. The erotica of an innocent. He could see the naivety in the hesitant charcoal lines. His manhood was drawn sometimes flaccid and sometimes erect, not quite anatomically correct and somewhat blurred, the outlines smudged as if she were embarrassed.

  He flushed with heat as he gazed upon himself through her eyes. She’d made him look like a Greek God. The knowledge shook him.

  He marvelled at what he looked like through her eyes. Pure unbridled masculinity. Pure beauty. Pure sex.

  He lay back and closed his eyes on a groan. Marcus knew. Marcus knew Amy’s heart. He’d been playing a game all along. He could throttle his friend for what he’d put him through these past few days.

  Henry almost laughed out loud. The bloody bastard had known all along. Marcus and his challenge. A bloody dangerous game as it turned out because, not only had Henry thought the worst of his friend, but Chesterton also misunderstood what he witnessed last night. Amy’s reputation was in tatters.

  Anger quickly replaced his humor. How could Marcus have been so stupid as to risk Amy’s reputation? It may be a game to Marcus, but this was his future wife.

  His breath caught. Wife. This week, he was quickly noticing her sense of adventure and her keen mind. And now he knew categorically that she was as loyal a friend as he’d initially believed, more than ever he wanted Amy as his countess. Yet, for some reason Amy didn’t appear to be seeking the match. Why didn’t she come to him for help? Why was she keeping the fact he’d almost made love to her in his garden a secret?

  He looked down at her sketches.

  Why?

  These clearly were drawn in admiration, even perhaps lust. She’d even drawn a picture of him pleasuring himself. But the drawings gradually changed. As he continued to leaf through a woman joined him in the pictures. The couple were always entwined. The man always on top of her. He smiled. He would love teaching her many varied and pleasurable positions. The woman in the drawings looked very much like Amy.

  Henry hoped she didn’t think his intentions were dishonorable. He wondered what she did hope for.

  Deep in thought, his first warning of approaching danger was the door opening. He’d been engrossed in his own vanity for too long. He lay as still as a statue, hoping she did not see him through the diaphanous curtains hanging around the bed.

  Her maid entered behind Amy.

  “Help me off with my gown will you, Lorraine, and then you can find Smitters. I can manage the rest myself.”

  Henry frowned. Smitters was his valet.

  “If you want me to, I’ll withhold my favors until Smitters tells us where the earring is.” Lorraine’s voice was full of teasing.

  “Don’t bring Smitters into this. He’ll get into trouble. That wouldn’t be fair.” Amy began to take her hair down. Long sable tresses fell about her shoulders like a shawl of black silk.

  Without conscious direction he raised his arm reaching across the bed, almost pushing the curtain aside, wanting to touch the silky softness. He quickly pulled back.

  Lorraine worked steadily, and soon Amy stood before the looking glass in nothing but her transparent shift. Henry had been rock hard the minute she stepped out of her dress, her milky skin, beautiful in the dim light.

  His heart thundered in his ears. It was a wonder neither woman heard it.

  Lorraine departed, leaving Amy sitting at her dresser, brushing her hair, lost in thought.

  He lay there on her bed, soaking in the beauty of the woman before him. She would become his wife. Her life would m
eld with his just as surely as her body would tonight. For once he claimed her there would be no turning back. She would be his.

  And only his.

  The knowledge shook him. The profound truth that he loved her soaked into his blood like a virulent fever.

  Amy slowly lowered the brush to the dresser and stood. She glanced over her shoulder to the bed. Her night gown lay at the end of the bed, half concealed, as he was, by the curtains.

  Facing the mirror once more, she slowly slipped the strap of her shift off one shoulder.

  Henry stilled, barely breathing in case she sensed him and stopped. He was desperate to feast on the secrets of her body.

  She slipped the second strap from her other shoulder and the shift fell to her waist. In the mirror, he saw her firm breasts, pert and plump. His mouth watered. He closed his eyes on a silent groan when Amy stared at herself in the mirror and then cupped her breasts, running her thumbs over her dusty rose nipples until they tightened into hardened buds.

  Heat consumed him. The delights of her body were succulently displayed. His eyes flew open, scared he’d miss any inch of her.

  When she ran her hands down her sides to where the shift was caught on her lower curves, he prayed she would not stop. He wasn’t disappointed. Amy pushed the material down over her curvaceous hips until it slid silently to pool on the floor around her feet.

  Her derriere, plump and firm, could drive a man wild. Her long legs evoked dreams of the pleasure he would find when they wrapped around him.

  He clenched his jaw to stifle his gasp. Amy was a real-life fantasy. Her hand moved to span her flat stomach before erotically sliding lower to rest in the silky black curls between her thighs.

  Excitement sped through him like a drug at the thought of watching her take her pleasure, but on a sigh she turned away from the mirror and reached for her night-rail.

  A primitive need saw his hand grab the night-rail first. Amy tugged, but he would not release it. Instead he scooted to the end of the bed, parted the curtain and said, “Leave it.”

  Amy’s eyes widened in shock. She stood naked before the man who owned her heart. His eyes, dark, burning, focused totally on her, his hunger and need for her clearly visible.

  Warmth infused every inch of her as she realized Henry was looking at her exactly how Marcus, in unguarded moments, looked at Sabine. With a ferocious hunger.

  She didn’t even bother to question why he was here. She simply didn’t care.

  She dropped the night-rail and straightened. Her skin tingled with excitement and a hint of apprehension. He leapt from the bed like a prowling lion, his hair a burned gold in the candlelight.

  He reached for her; palm curving about her jaw, he tipped up her face, drew her close. He studied her eyes—as if searching for a truth. She didn’t even contemplate hiding herself from him.

  “You know you’re mine. Since that night in the garden you’ve belonged to me.”

  Her gaze focused on his lips. She watched, mesmerized, as he drew in another breath. Opened his lips to speak again—

  She stretched up, drew his head down, brought her lips close to his—murmured, “I’ve always been yours.”

  He covered her lips with his, kissing her voraciously, all consuming. Hands splaying, sliding over her bare skin like a whispered caress. Reverent. Worshipping. Claiming...

  He closed his arms about her, pulling her close, molding her to him. Any chance of stopping him died the instant she’d set eyes upon his face, on all he said in just one hot, burning gaze.

  Naked in his arms, she clung, and returned his kisses greedily, avidly—flagrantly encouraged him to seize, take, and claim.

  Halting, he asked, his voice a husky promise, “The drawings...Who is it you fantasize over? Is it me?”

  She nodded mutely.

  On a groan, he lifted her and turned with her in his arms to face the bed. He let her down, sliding her body down his, his hands cupping her bottom, pressing her to him, molding her softness against his erection while his tongue plundered her mouth, leaving her a mass of aching need. Heat bloomed and fire took hold—she wanted more.

  This time, she wanted it all.

  She reluctantly eased back from his kiss. “I want to see you. See if you’re all I imagined,” she added breathlessly.

  With eager hands she pushed his coat wide, trapping his arms. With a curse, he let her go, stepped back, wrenched off his coat, and flung it aside.

  Her eyes widened at the violence behind the movement. He stilled. “I’d never hurt you. You do know that?”

  In answer she stepped back into his embrace, her lips brazenly seeking his, her hand covering his heart. She knew the man he was. Gentle, giving, kind—loving. Loving was why she found him so attractive, why he and only he would do for her.

  That revelation was simply there, its truth resonant and clear. She loved Henry to the depth of her soul. He loved her back. His actions here tonight proved it, for he would never do anything dishonourable. He would never knowingly ruin her. He knew that by kissing her, by claiming her, he was locking his life to hers.

  The astonishment of that fact almost overwhelmed her. She forgot all about the mysterious Millicent, about the fact he might want another. All she saw, felt, and heard was that he wanted her—now!

  And she wanted him—now!

  Amy acted on it, yanking the halves of his waistcoat apart, stretching to slip it from his board shoulders. Impatiently he pulled his shirt over his head, and finally she had her hands on hot, rough, skin. She ran her fingers over his chest and stomach, the muscles beneath rigid and locked. His chest was a wonder of rough hairs the color of a lion’s mane. She leaned into him and licked. He tasted divine, addictive.

  He once more plundered her mouth, his hands closing about, and then provocatively kneading the globes of her bottom. The long muscles framing his back flexed like steel beneath her wandering hands. She ran her fingers down his back, counting the ribs as she traced the muscles leading her down his sides and back to his waist, to caress the rippling bands across his abdomen. They flickered at each touch.

  Gaining courage, her fingers quested lower. He sucked in a breath and held it as she lightly traced the prominent line of his erection. He stilled, his lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth, when she reached for the buttons at the waistband of his breeches. As she undid the first button, he groaned into her mouth. Thrilled at her newfound power, Amy hurriedly undid the rest and slid one hand inside the opened flap, and found the rigid length of him. Hot with skin so very soft and smooth...

  He was under her spell, entirely focused on her hand and what she was doing. Her fingers explored freely, and learned the size and shape of him. He was solid, larger than she imagined. He more than filled her hand. Growing bolder, she closed her fingers around him, circling him, and this time his groan was accompanied by a shudder.

  She knew she was playing with fire, but she took her time, fondling his sac, wonder blooming as it tightened in her hand. She could feel the surge of heated passion rising through him, provoked by her play, and it rose in her body in kind. She throbbed and grew damp between her thighs.

  His mouth finally left hers, but he didn’t stop her games. He truly was a saint because he let her play. She could see the tension in his neck, the cords tight as a bow.

  Henry clenched his jaw and endured her touch, when all he wanted was to throw her on the bed and sink into the heaven he knew he’d find there. He wanted to bury himself so deep and let her wrap those gazelle-like legs around him.

  Though she was innocent, her touch was pure heaven, her instincts sound. He watched the wonderment in her smile and another surge of heat, of pure unadulterated desire rose, hardening and lengthening the part of his anatomy that was currently the determined focus of her being. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold himself in check.

  Not long, as it turned out. He made the mistake of looking down as she sent her thumb stroking over the aching head of his shaft and found a late
nt drop. She looked deep into his eyes, brought her thumb to her lips, and tasted, murmuring approval.

  Control slipped. He caught his breath, nudged her face up and found her lips again, drew her into a drugging kiss, and ruthlessly, deliberately, took over. He didn’t hold back. He seized and devoured, claiming her mouth, her lips, with a promise of what else he’d claim this night.

  He would dictate the pace. He impatiently drew her hand away and efficiently divested himself of the rest of his clothes.

  He looked magnificent. A Greek God come to life. She took in the sight, drank in the glory.

  He drew her close, then closer until there was not even air between them. Silken skin caressing his chest, her arms, his erection, cradled in her softness, while he plundered her mouth, holding her and her senses captive.

  Amy tried to move closer. She wanted him more than she’d wanted anything in her life. Far from resisting, she sank into his arms, gave herself up to his commanding kiss, surrendered and waited, nerves tight with anticipation, for him to make her his.

  Without breaking their kiss, he lifted her and climbed onto the bed. The sheer curtains closed behind him, enveloping them in their own world.

  They were on their knees facing each other and Amy let out a cry of disappointment when his lips left hers, only to moan in relief as his mouth found one tight, furled nipple.

  His hot mouth suckled and savoured. Her head fell back; her gasp shivered through the room. He feasted like a starving man. He laved her breasts, suckled, nipped—sending arrows of heat to her core. His hot mouth gave such pleasure she prayed he never stopped. Her hands closed on his skull, holding him to her; she was never letting go. His mouth was heaven on her flesh.

  She rode the waves of delight he evoked. His hands roamed her curves while his mouth devoured her breasts. A wild wantonness erupted within and she reached for him. She gloried in the feel of his hard body, the evidence of his desire never more real. Amy gave stroked his cock once, and he growled deep in his chest. He urged her back on the bed and she went willingly. Her skin was flaming, her body melting, all her senses heightened and in scattered disarray. He followed her down, one knee rising and pushing between hers, parting her thighs, exposing the musky scent of her arousal to the room.