by Sue London
The girls didn’t gasp and whisper as she assumed they would, just silently watched her as she crossed the vast expanse of oak flooring and let herself out of the room. She hoped her temper would cool, the further she withdrew from them, but she found instead that her anger only increased. What in the hellfires had Robert Bittlesworth told his sisters that they had immediately taken to assessing her as marriage material? She thought they hadn’t even separated amicably last night after she had essentially accused him of murder. She didn’t know precisely what the hints and visions of death had meant, and if she had taken a few moments to compose herself she might have spoken more guardedly. So why on earth had he hinted to his sisters that there was to be something of a future for them? It was ludicrous.
The butler scrambled to get in front of her to hold the door as she swept into the foyer. She drew up short and looked at the older man. “Do you know where Robert Bittlesworth lives?”
“Yes, mum.”
“Tell me.”
She repeated the address to her driver and resisted the urge to seize the door of the carriage and slam it closed behind her. Soon enough she could release her ire on the proper source.
* * *
The room was quiet for a few minutes after Miss Grant left. George finally sat up again. “I liked her.”
Jack nodded. “Agreed. She has mettle.”
Sabre sipped her tea, still staring at the door. “She isn’t easy to intimidate. That should stand her in good stead.”
“Irritable, though,” George said.
“We did seem a bit like the Erinyes,” Jack said.
“The what?” George asked.
“The Furies,” Sabre explained.
“Oh, yes. I loved the Furies,” George mused. “They punished the wicked.”
“The breakers of oaths,” Jack corrected.
“I want to know what dinner party she's referring to,” Sabre said.
“I can certainly find out,” George said with a devilish grin.
Sabre nodded. “Good. I'll find out more about her family.”
Jack frowned. “Aren't we, well, being a bit presumptuous? One dance does not an engagement make.”
“Robert told me once that he is careful not to complicate his personal life because his work keeps him busy enough. He wouldn't do anything to lead on a young lady because it was simply too much trouble to deal with. Thus, even mild attention means a great deal more than it does from any other man, because he wouldn’t be casually flirting with an unmarried woman. Or she made him compromise his own rule. Either case makes her of great interest.”
“Agreed,” George said.
“Fine,” Jack said. “Then what do you want me to do?”
Sabre patted her arm. “We want you to go get some rest. Otherwise we will have one very upset earl on our hands.”
Jack smoothed a hand over her rounded tummy. “I'm sure you can think of something for me to do that isn't too taxing.”
“Of course I can. But Gideon would be most put out if you spend too much of your time on this, and we've already taken up most of your day. Let George and I do what we do best, and we will tell you of our findings.”
Chapter Six
Robert heard a knock on his study door. From habit, he swept the papers he was working on into his drawer and locked it before rising to unlock the door. “Yes?”
His butler Bobbins' tall, solid figure loomed in the doorway. “Lady here to see you, sir. Says her name is Miss Grant.”
His staff was under instruction to always tell him of unexpected visitors. Miss Grant might qualify as the most unexpected. “Bring her to me.”
Bobbins' eyebrows rose slightly. “Here, sir?”
Robert straightened his cuffs and nodded. “Here.”
The staff was rarely allowed in his study, especially on a day when he had been locked in for hours on end, but it appealed to him to bring her here. To have her in his lair, where his power was absolute. He left the door open and settled behind his desk again.
She entered behind Bobbins, her glare at the butler indicating that she considered the former brawler more annoying than intimidating. “Miss Grant, sir,” the butler announced, moving aside to usher the lady forward. On Robert's nod Bobbins withdrew, pulling the door partly closed behind him.
“Did you have more questions for me?” Robert asked without preamble.
Miss Grant set her hands on her hips. “In fact, I do. What on earth did you tell your sisters about me?”
Robert narrowed his eyes. This woman had the damnedest habit of surprising him. “My sisters?”
“Yes, a short while ago three of them did a fair impression of the Spanish Inquisition over tea. If you are truly looking for a bride then I suggest you are going about it incorrectly.”
“You wouldn't care to be a viscountess?”
“You're a viscount?”
He shrugged. “I will be once my father is dead.”
She shook her head. “That is beside the point. I have no wish to be married.”
“Really? And why is that?”
“I value my freedom. My interest in you wasn't as a potential groom, but as a lover.” Her chin tipped up in defiance and her eyes boldly perused him.
He let the faintest ghost of a smile cross his face. “That is agreeable.”
From her quick intake of breath he knew that she found this flirtation exhilarating. “You understand that I am not interested in marriage?” she insisted.
He nodded slowly. “And if you are sincere about your intentions, close and lock that door behind you.”
A lovely blush stained her throat and spread down to the hint of décolletage. Her day dress was a bright bottle green, setting off her sunrise hair and rosy skin to perfection. She was vivid. He felt the same desire to reach out and touch her as one did a flame. Potentially, he thought, with the same consequence. Then her lip quirked up in a half-smile and she turned to saucily stroll to the door. She leaned against it after she locked it and looked back over her shoulder. “Like this?” she asked, all coy innocence.
Someone less familiar with whores might have thought her one. But Robert had never met a whore who had the confidence that shone in Miss Grant's eyes. She wasn't desperate for a man's attention or his coin. She wanted a playmate. She wanted a worthy lover. By his own decision he had never been with a woman other than a whore, but now there was Miss Grant. Miss Grant who broke all his rules. Miss Grant, who made him want to both dominate and beg.
He savored these moments of anticipation, knowing that what followed might not live up to the promise pregnant in this moment. He observed that a tendril of her hair had escaped the confines of her pins and curled against her neck, that the flow of her dress gave a hint of her voluptuous shape and where he would put his hands to draw her to him. That her lips were still the rosiest and plumpest treat he had ever seen.
His desk chair creaked as he slowly rose to his feet. When he moved toward her, she turned to rest her back against the door and watched him with a seductive smile.
* * *
When she entered, he had been sitting quietly behind the desk, his energy a simmering and controlled force. His attire was untidy, as though he had either been working or perhaps dressed hastily and without thought this morning. Those ice chip eyes had watched her steadily and dispassionately. His utter detachment had only made her more determined to prove her point. Imogen knew that she had let anger and lust swirl together while facing him down, making her reckless. But she had felt bold. In control. That was, until Robert Bittlesworth stood up. Now she felt sympathy for all the hunted creatures of the world, for this was surely what it felt like to have the eyes of a deadly predator on you. No longer dispassionate, but driven by an intense focus that made her feel exposed, vulnerable. He stopped mere inches from her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him. Close enough that her body warred over whether to lean into him or skitter away.
“Are you quite sure?” he asked softly.
> His questioning over whether she knew if she wanted a lover or not stoked her temper. “Quite,” she bit off.
The smile he gave her was downright feral and she thought that if she had any sense at all she would run away and never look back. Then he kissed her. Not a sweet or tentative kiss, either. One strong hand held the back of her neck and his lips started an assault that would have been the pride of Wellington. If the British had fought half as well as this one kissed, she thought, the Americas would still be a colony. She slid her arms around him and felt his hum of approval against her tongue. And oh, what he was doing to her tongue. To her lips. Her body started tingling everywhere. There could never be enough of this. It was beyond passion. Beyond the emotional or the physical. He leaned into her, the planes and angles of his hard body pressing her against the wooden door and her desire blazed, consuming rational thought and leaving a shivering trail in its wake. She found herself fumbling at ties and buttons on his coat and shirt, desperate to be closer to him, to feel his hot skin under her fingers.
He kissed his way to her jaw, the side of her throat. “This is a lovely dress,” he murmured, running a finger over her sleeve. She couldn't believe he wanted to explore her sartorial accomplishments when all she wanted with his clothes was to get rid of them. Then his fingers tightened and he ripped the delicate bodice in twain. “I'll buy you another.”
Imogen wanted a lover, and her soul whispered, “Oh yes. Here you are.”
Chapter Seven
Miss Grant was something of a problem. She knew things she shouldn't, including, it seemed, precisely how to tremble with need under his hands. Precisely how to mewl low in her throat when he nipped her shoulder. Precisely how to trace her fingers over his flesh so that he couldn't decide whether to tease her or give them both what they wanted. Robert never did anything without thinking. Never did anything unwise. Yes, Miss Grant was definitely something of a problem. But problems could be solved and Robert was very, very good at solving them.
He took a step back and she swayed against the door, her eyes fluttering open. Her dress had long since slid to her feet in a rent mess, and he was surprised to find that even her undergarments were bright colors. Blue silk stays and a lighter blue silk chemise. Her breasts were high and round, her waist slender over gently rounded hips. “Beautiful.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I don't need compliments.”
“Excellent, as I'm not particularly good at giving them.” But she was beautiful. As colorful as one of those paintings the duke liked to collect, her complexion rosy from desire, her hair mussed. “I believe,” he said, “that you were trying to prove to me how terribly unsuitable you are for marriage.”
Her siren smile returned. “No, I was trying to make you prove that you were suitable to be my lover.”
“Oh, Miss Grant. I don't have anything to prove.”
Her brows rose. “Oh?”
He shook his head. “Not at all. But I do my best work at my desk. Would you like for me to make love to you there?”
She swallowed audibly, her desire evident, but demurred. “It sounds uncomfortable.”
He ran a finger from the soft skin under her chin to where her stays cupped her bosom. “Have some faith in me, Miss Grant. I will see to your comfort and pleasure.” His tone hardened. “Go sit on the desk.”
She raised her brows. “You can't just order me to do your bidding.”
“I wouldn't,” he countered, “if you didn't like it.”
She bit her lip while mulling his accusation, but finally complied, settling delicately on the broad oak surface. This was an image that would stay with him for some time, Miss Grant in her blue silks on his desk. He tossed aside his jacket, vest, and shirt. As he unbuttoned the falls of his breeches he could see he had her attention, her knees moving apart in a wanton invitation. She was as bold as the colors she preferred. Yes, she was quite perfect. Too perfect. But he would worry about that later.
Now, he buried a hand in her hair and gave her an erotic, almost punishing kiss. She wrapped her legs around him and drew her body closer to him. Only the thin silk of the chemise separated them as she ground her hips against his. Robert had never understood the attraction of virgins. This was what he wanted from a woman, confident desire. He pushed her down on the desk and she merely gazed up at him in sensual curiosity. He wanted to shock and intrigue her. Enthrall her. It wasn't an instinct he had felt with his former lovers. He tore away the blue silks and ran a possessive hand from her throat to her intimate curls. She sighed and arched under his touch.
“I liked that chemise.”
He leaned down to suck her nipple into his mouth, earning a writhing gasp and her nails in his hair. “I'll buy you ten more,” he said, before moving to lave the other breast. Lovely, full breasts with a beauty mark just above her right nipple.
“I don't need you to buy my chemises,” she complained breathlessly. “I could afford a hundred of them.”
“But none of those would be from me.” He kissed his way down to her hips and she loosened her legs, letting the knees fall wide. Bold and receptive? Yes, quite perfect.
* * *
Imogen found Robert Bittlesworth's combination of dominance and indulgence mystifying, yet terribly attractive. Most of the domineering men in her experience had been focused on their own pleasure, their own ego. Granted, she had more insight than most into the motivations of her lovers, but that was also why she was certain that his focus was on learning her body, rather than simply demonstrating his prowess. She relaxed back into a cloud of sensation, her fingers buried in his hair while he tasted her most intimate places. Rather than the aggressive and sudden climax she had expected he would drive her to, she found herself gasping on waves of gentle, building pleasure. She wasn't sure she had ever felt so wet and desperate for her lover's cock.
“Robert, please.”
He kissed her belly. “What do you want, Miss Grant?”
“I want you inside me.”
She felt his fingers in her slick channel, his thumb brushing over the little nub that could yield such pleasure.
“You're a terrible tease, Robert Bittlesworth,” she said thickly.
He nipped her side. “Oh? You wanted something else?”
She opened her eyes to look at him, to see his aura. “You want it, too. You might want it even more than I. Pleasure me, Robert. I want you so deeply inside me that I can't think.”
She saw when her bold words snapped his control. His aura blazed and he did as she asked, holding her hips and plunging deep inside. Deep and hard, chasing the peak she had first expected from him. Her body strained against his, as determined to give and find pleasure.
Chapter Eight
After the desk there had been the floor and now the sofa. Robert knew that he should be concerned that Miss Grant could so easily both arouse and satisfy him. Not that his body remained satisfied for long. Right now he was hard as a green lad in a brothel while she rocked over him, her lovely breasts bouncing with her rhythm. His hands were on her waist, enjoying the soft skin undulating against his palms. But he could see that she was close to her release again, so he moved his fingers to the slick bud between her thighs to send her over the edge. Then watching her pleasure, feeling her inner muscles greedily clasp against him, he went over with her.
She curled up against his chest in the aftermath and it felt surprisingly good. He usually wasn't one for friendly intimacy. Not that he hadn't spent a good deal of time with the girls at Madame Blythe's, he just hadn't particularly enjoyed this part of it. Miss Grant, however, drew away before he had tired of feeling her soft curves pressed against him. She sat back on her haunches, looking down at him with a satisfied smile. He gave in to the temptation to feel those curves under his hands, watching his darker, rougher skin playing over hers.
She took a moment to look around his office with an interest that she hadn't expressed earlier. “Overall, you're a man of subtle and refined taste,” she said. “Which makes me wond
er why you have that truly atrocious pillow.”
“This?” He pulled the pillow from behind his head. She nodded. “My sister made it for me. She was seven at the time.”
“Which sister?”
He tucked the pillow behind his head again. “I just have the one.”
“The blonde? She looks nothing like you.”
He chuckled. “No, that one isn't my sister.”
“But she said-”
“I'm sure she did. The Haberdashers have undoubtedly taken it into their minds to be my protectors.”
“Protectors? Those girls were smelling orange blossoms. And I heard one of them use the term Haberdashers. What does it mean?”
He stroked the silken skin under her left breast. “It's just the name of their club.”
“That's odd. Do they create notions?”
He chuckled again. “Not the way you're thinking.”
She sighed. “Well, as delightful as this has been, I must return to my cousin's house before she sends out searchers. And I find myself woefully lacking in clothing.”
“You've fallen prey to my dastardly plan of keeping you naked in my bed.”
She lay down on his chest again, smiling. “We never made it to your bed.”
“That was stage two of the plan.”
“Where in your plan was Lord Chester going to be banging on the door, because you need to include that.”
“You think they can find you?”
“The Chester carriage has been outside your home for over an hour now.”
He tickled her ribs. “What a terrible oversight on my part.”
She squirmed away from his fingers and he slipped out from underneath her, leaving her lounging on the sofa. He tossed his white shirt to her. “Wear this while I arrange for your dress.”
Donning his breeches, he went to find Bobbins and secure suitable clothing for Miss Grant.
* * *
Imogen wrapped herself in Robert's shirt and sat back on the sofa. She felt the euphoria and lethargy of vigorous lovemaking, and perhaps something else that she couldn't quite put her finger on. She picked up the abysmally embroidered pillow. It must be the girl who shared his eyes, the duchess. Did she know that her brother had kept it? There were times when Imogen wished she'd had siblings. Her life had often been lonely, traveling with her mother on business or staying at a boarding school. She had seen many amazing things, she'd just had no one to talk to about it. Well, no one who really mattered.
