One Night Is Never Enough

by Anne Mallory

  The counterpane itself was magnificent. The scarlet-and-navy pattern wove together into a tight sculpted print, like an oriental rug shot through with gold. She had never seen such exquisite cloth. She touched it with her finger pads, running them along the surface. The fabric was silky, smooth, the gold threads making just the slightest hitch. She curled her fingers into the fabric, feeling the layers beneath. He sat upon the bed, sinking heavily into the layers before arranging the chessboard on top, situating it in its own divot of goose down.

  He scooted up and reclined on his side, a charming smile about his lips. “Much more comfortable.”

  Decadent. Lush. Not comfortable.

  She perched on the edge, determined not to be enveloped. A part of her, here in the illusory night, wanting the opposite. Just a little part.

  “Come now, Charlotte. You can hardly see from that position, much less reach your pieces. It will be detrimental to your play.”

  “I find myself thinking this change of venue can hardly be anything but detrimental to my play. Or to me.”

  He raised a brow. “Not up to the challenge? Even with my most gentlemanly promise?”

  She frowned and scooted up, dragging herself across the luxurious fabric half in protest, and sat with legs tucked to the side on the decadent bed, her voluminous, prim black skirts spread about her, her back ramrod straight, as her undergarments dictated. He reclined on his side, propped on one arm, shirt open at the collar and hitching beneath him. Creasing the covers under and around him in a depraved way.

  She pulled her lips between her teeth, wetting the undersides, a feeling she could only identify as nervousness running through her.

  “Suddenly afraid for your virginity?” He seemed to find some amusement in this as he arrayed the pieces that had scooted from the centers of the squares during their movements.

  “Should I be?”

  “It depends on what you keep doing with those delectable lips of yours. They keep promising different things.”

  She raised her chin, the thought that she could be seen as deliberately trying to tempt him making her uncomfortable even as her lips strained to pull into her mouth again. “I am not a loose woman.”

  “Oh,” he said in decided amusement as he met her eyes. “Of the state of your virginity, I have no doubt.”

  “You didn’t seem particularly prone to the thought at the beginning of the night.”

  “With you offering yourself up? There was a moment there that I thought I had been mistaken about your maidenhead, or lack thereof. That would have made things easier if it had been true. And more difficult.”

  She blinked at the opposing statements.

  He smiled at her look. “I’ll leave you to interpret that, shall I?”

  “I don’t think it difficult to do so.” She narrowed her eyes. “Men don’t like others traveling the path they want to tread alone, even if their own paths are strewn with couplings,” she said coldly, thinking of one of their neighbors in the country. Of the woman’s fall from grace, of her mistake in trusting the wrong man. Of the men who had sought her out afterward—none of whom would ever have marriage in mind. Not for someone soiled by another.

  A mistress could be soiled. Not a wife.

  Even Trant’s eyes had been edged in distaste tonight. He wanted her badly enough that he was willing to overlook this, but she had no doubt that she would pay for this night forever should she marry the man.

  But the man across from her continued to look amused, as if she were trying to explain a too-complicated riddle and failing.

  “Some men desire the claiming of a woman’s virginity, true. A staked claim to say something is theirs alone.” He laughed—the sound warm and smooth, with just the edge of the roughness that seemed to travel beneath. The irregularity causing her to shiver but not in aversion.

  “But what good is it to be first?” His lids fell a fraction, making him look far less affable and decidedly more dangerous. “The first hand in a game means nothing for the win. Some men say it sets the tone. I’ve often found that only a green gambler stakes anything of true value on the first hand. More likely it is a complete fluke. Merely practice. Warm-up.”

  His partially hooded eyes surveyed her lazily. “Lasting until everyone else is a mere shadow at the table, until you’ve milked everything from them . . .” Dangerous eyes caressed her throat. “That is where winning lies.”

  She didn’t know how to respond to that, nor to the reactions he caused as his eyes touched her lips, her wrists, her neck. Here on a bed, no less. And a decadent one at that. “Contrary to appearances, that makes you sound like a patient man,” she said, trying to focus on safe things.

  Even though he had played as if he had all the time in the world, this wasn’t patience. This was—as she had thought earlier—playing a game far deeper than simple chess.

  He smiled. “Andreas despairs of me, of course. If I want something enough, I will risk everything on a single toss of the dice.” He looked at her throat again, at the damn pulse she knew had to be jumping, and smiled slowly. “But it’s not so I will be first. It is so I will be the absolute winner.”

  Her heart sped up. “What do you want from me?” she whispered.

  “That is an excellent question.” He tilted his head. Then he carelessly motioned to the board. “But it is your move.”

  She nervously touched the shoulders of the knight closest to her. The conversation, the night, had soothed and put her on edge in increasingly violent turnabouts. “Do you plan to play with me all night?”

  There was that affable smile again, incongruous and edged in danger. “Are you not enjoying the game?”

  She had never played this game—the one that truly mattered here—at all. She looked down at her piece, moved it, then looked back to him. She couldn’t help meeting his eyes. Directness had cost her at least one suitor in the past, and she had tried to rein in the tendency, but the man across from her seemed to thrive on her natural inclination.

  “Strangely, yes, but I’m not sure I am equal to the overall challenge.”

  Equal to any of the challenges in her life. For at any moment, she felt the hairline fissure would crack, split down the middle, splinter the remaining pieces like a cup of china dropped carelessly to the floor. Shattered.

  “You seem more than equal to it. It makes me literally coil inside, wanting to spring.”

  There was something about the words that snapped something within her.

  “But why? I—I’m broken.” The words came out in a whisper.

  Everything stopped within her. She had not just uttered that to a man completely unknown to her. A stranger and threat. Uttered something she could hardly admit to herself.

  Her eyes were frozen on his. But his eyes didn’t widen, nor narrow, nor show any reaction at all. He simply tilted his head in that relaxed, deadly manner he seemed to own, his fingers caressing a piece. “I’ve found that life equips those who are determined. And everything about you fairly screams determination, Miss Chatsworth.”

  She sat there, stiff.

  “Determination, shackled irons longing to be picked, and survival. That is why you caught my attention. And that is why I took you from Trant.”

  And as if he had said nothing of note, he moved his castle forward in a languid motion.

  “Took me from Trant?” She had the strange but distinct impression that he had left something out of his listed reasons, and unbelievably, she hungered to know it, though the thought of what it could be terrified something in her as well. The same illogical feeling that had halted her movement toward him in the Hunsdens’ shop halted her here—that something irrevocable might occur should she follow through.

  “You must know that he desires you.”

  If it were someone in society, one of her acquaintances, she would freeze them with a glare for their daring. But there was some need deep within her to speak to someone. And the man in front of her, dangerously charming and friendly at the moment,
called the words from her. “He has danced around a proposal of marriage. But so have others. Father has turned down more offers than I can count, holding out for a larger title.”

  Her mouth opened and closed twice before the words spilled forth. “And it doesn’t matter, in the end. I have no say.”

  Like a stopped-up waterfall suddenly undammed. She scrambled for sticks and logs to stem the flow.

  Roman surveyed her. “It will only grow worse. Your father has stupidly held out these past two years, declining offers, and Trant will finally be able to take advantage of it.”

  “How do you know?” It came out as more of a demand than she’d intended.

  He waved a hand. “It is my business to know these things.”

  “What exactly is your business, Roman?”

  “My business is complicated and boring.” He tilted his head, a smile curling. “No, I withdraw that. My business is complicated and far too exciting for a delicate lady’s ears. You will likely faint before I utter the first words of an explanation.”

  She felt much better trading barbs. Easier than to look within. To fear an empty pit. “It is a good thing that my ears are sturdy, then, and that I’ve never fainted before.”

  “There is always a first.” His fingers went to his temple and chin, his head resting upon them. “At least you are on the bed. You would fall so prettily upon your back. Lips and legs parted, in complete surrender.”

  The reminder of their proximity and position was unnecessary but still brought color to her cheeks.

  “See. There. I detect the beginnings of a faint already.”

  “More likely you detect the stirrings of my temper.”

  “Really? I’ll bet you look quite lovely in a fit. I missed the vision earlier owing to your veil. Cheeks all ablaze in passion, I’m sure.”

  “I thought you uninterested in beauty.”

  He smiled slowly. “What I’m interested in is you.”

  She didn’t move for a second, then she lowered her lids to keep her emotions from him. Wanting to know that reason he had left out. “Why?”

  “Is it not enough that I simply am?”

  “Everyone has a motive.” And for some reason, she desperately wanted, needed, to hear his, here in this strange, drugging night.

  “And so I do.” He leaned forward, and one finger touched her chin. His elbow pushed the bed farther down, causing one of the pieces to fall and roll off as he leaned across. “I’m going to possess you, Charlotte.”

  His free hand caressed the flesh of her throat, then threaded into the hair at her nape, pulling the strands there, tipping her head back. Not harshly, but not gently either. “I’m going to take you and claim you and make you beg.”

  Her lips parted, and heat spread through her. The part of her that housed her immense pride screamed through the heat, overwhelmed.

  His lips were breaths from hers. Breaths she couldn’t count or take.

  “The question is, will you passively accept such, or will you possess me right back?” he whispered, nearly against her lips. “Take me, claim me? Make me beg? Push from my mind any thought that isn’t you?”

  He was too near her for her to see his lips, but his eyes darkened, melting, and the curves of his cheeks, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, indicated their whispered lift. “What will you choose to do, Charlotte? Hmmm? The answer to that, the desire to know that answer—that is my motive.” The lightest touch of skin, of the very tips of their lips, brushed. His hand withdrew, then his body. He picked up the fallen piece, putting it back in its place as if nothing had happened.

  Charlotte stared at him, at the top of his head as he moved the piece, then at his face, cleared of some of the emotions that had been there a few seconds before but still full of challenge. At the dichotomy displayed. That he thought she might be able to do it coupled with the doubt that anyone could.

  She looked down at the board, thinking of more than her next chess move. Knowing that there was a motive that he had not yet admitted. Wanting to know everything and yet terrified of the emotions he made her feel so strongly. Of the way he pushed any thought from her mind that wasn’t him. That wasn’t her.

  “You look exhausted,” she said instead.

  “I’ve been up far too long. Winning and debauching maidens takes a lot out of a man.”

  Her lips lifted of their own accord. “I can see that.” She moved her piece, and they settled into a rhythm of play that while not entirely comfortable with the ribbons of tension threading through, was soothing all the same.

  He laid his head back on the pillows, eyes closed while she contemplated her next move. It would make all the difference in the game, this choice.

  She finally edged her last pawn forward. Something that she couldn’t put her finger on fluttered on the edges of her mind. Some pitfall she couldn’t see. She waited for his warm chuckle to tell her he would now lay claim to everything.

  Nothing.

  She peered at him. At the long golden lashes resting against his cheeks. The even lift of his chest. An angel resting upon cloudy pillows.

  He was asleep.

  Disconcertment ran through her. He had said he had been up for days, and the slight circles beneath his eyes proclaimed such.

  But . . . but where was the wild seduction? The claiming? The making her beg?

  She shifted on the covers, uncomfortable with the nature of the thoughts—the feel of them echoed in her belly as if they were natural and normal. The edge of the intoxicating danger that he made her feel when he gripped her chin in his dangerous hands.

  Instead, he was lying on the pillows, at ease. A strange thought that he didn’t seem the type of man to let down his guard floated through her. That she could do anything to him in this moment.

  Though if she shifted forward, would he catch her arm in his grip? Punish her for her thoughts—harmful or seductive?

  She could flee. Though to where she would flee, and why, she didn’t know. There were only a few hours until her father would arrive to retrieve her. Far safer to spend them here, where she had already released some of her fear.

  And she had. Released certain reasons to fear, that is. For he could have done anything to her without much recourse from her father.

  Yet he had replaced initial fears with the keener concerns over her own body’s responses. Dark paths calling to her to turn the corners. To see what lurked around the hedges.

  She did something she wouldn’t have believed possible the moment she had heard her father’s outrageous mistake—or the moment the man across from her promised he would possess her—she curled up at the foot of the bed and, a few minutes later, felt her own lids fall.

  She woke abruptly. Her head was nestled on a pillow, covers pulled over her chest. She distinctly remembered falling asleep outside of the coverings though, and she pushed herself up against the headboard in a flash.

  But she was alone.

  Faint light had gathered at the edges of the windows, dull gray morning shadows allowing her to see that the clock said it was a quarter to six. Her father would arrive at any moment.

  She slipped her legs to the floor, the covers pulling at her dress as if unwilling to relinquish their hold. She drew upright and smoothed down the crinkles. She had worn a dress more suited to mourning than to lascivious activities, and it hadn’t taken well to being creased under the covers for so long. She would remember such things for liaisons in the future, she thought humorlessly.

  She stepped to the door between the bedroom and living quarters, wondering where her erstwhile host had taken himself off to. It didn’t take long to discover.

  He stood at the window, the drape pulled back by one hand. There was a stillness to him standing there, gazing out the window to something beyond.

  There was a minute tightening in his posture—enough to indicate that he knew she was standing there, watching—but he didn’t move.

  The clock struck the first of its six peals.

 
She cleared her suddenly dry throat. “I suppose this is farewell then, Roman.” Her voice sounded unusually scratchy.

  He said nothing for two peals, then let the drape fall and turned to her. As he bridged the distance between them, the slow smile that heated something within her spread across his face. “Is it?”

  He was far too close. Looking down at her face in that manner. Making strange feelings curl within.

  “I—yes.”

  Another peal.

  His capable hand wrapped around the back of her neck, pulling her the short distance to him. Her mouth opened in exclamation, her quickened breath needing escape. “Then I suppose there is only one thing to do,” he said.

  And his lips were upon hers.

  Not the light press of a gentleman’s lips. Not the perfunctory kisses she had seen from established pairs. Not what she heard about in the back rooms with marriage-hungry misses saying they had exchanged quick butterfly touches with their loves.

  This was something far more consuming. Scorching. Claiming.

  A thump beat within and around her.

  And then they were skimming, barely touching hers. There was something even more serious in the brush. A promise.

  But a promise of what? For there was only one more peal for the night to be complete, and assuredly footsteps would be drawing closer, stopping on the other side of the door. Her father coming to escort her home. Roman’s hand slipped from her nape, his fingers drawing along the edge of her chin, rubbing over her lower lip. His other hand took hers and pressed something into her palm.

  “Knight to D6.”

  His voice sifted over her skin, silk over gravel, and she processed the words as the door opened, the last peal sounding.

  “Checkmate, Charlotte.”

  Chapter 7

  Charlotte watched the polish build layer by layer on the houses, the façades lengthening and widening as they drew closer to Mayfair. Her knuckles traced her lips, the white king clutched in her fist. Roman Merrick was . . . complicated. She thought that was the best way to sum up the man at the moment.

  And dangerous, very dangerous, to the path she needed to travel.