by Anne Stuart
Sanity was overrated, his cousin had said. She had to agree, because this was madness, and she wanted it. For a brief moment in time Adrian Rohan belonged to her, and nothing could ever take that away from his face.
Instead he looked dark, tortured, his blue eyes black in the shadows. His invasion of her body no longer hurt—she had grown grudgingly accustomed to it—but she wondered when he was going to remove it.
"Am I hurting you?" he asked, which surprised her. Why would he care about her comfort?
She searched for her most practical tone, but given the circumstances it eluded her. "It's all right," she said a little breathlessly. "You may remove it now."
She could feel his soft laugh inside her body-a most strange sensation. "I may? And why should I want to do that?"
She started up at him, perplexed. "Because you've done what you wanted. You had sex with me. It wasn't rape, I didn't fight you, so you needn't worry that I'll bring charges against you. As you pointed out, this was my own fault for coming here unprotected. But we're finished now, and if I' not getting out until morning I'd like to sleep." She could be quite proud of her unemotional reaction to the whole confusing business. Later she could wail and cry when no one was around. For now it was done, over with, and she was deceptively calm. Time to move on with life.
"Oh, my precious angel," Adrian said in a silky, amused voice. "My sweet child, and by god you are a child when it comes to matters of carnality. I thought you had a clearer idea of what went on between men and women. Haven't you ever been in the country?"
“Well, I could hardly stand there and stare when the animals were breeding,” she managed in a cranky voice. "My parents would have been horrified. And Lina won't explain these things. Aren't you finished yet?"
"My dear Miss Spenser, we have only just begun.”
Before she could say a word he started to withdraw, and she let out her pent-up breath, only to have him push into her again, thick and hard. She cried out, but he simply repeated the motion, his narrow hips moving, pulling partway out and thrusting back in again.
"What are you doing?" she gasped as she clutched his shoulders, the white linen loose in her fingers.
"You want the pretty words, or the truth?" he whispered, leaning forward to brush his mouth against hers. "You're being tupped, shagged, screwed— made love to." Each phrase was punctuated with a thrust, and he was as breathless as she was. "In fact, Charlotte, you're being fucked. It's about this—" he thrust hard "—and this." Another thrust and she could feel her nipples harden in the warm night air, feel the strange heat in the pit of her stomach begin to build and burn.
He slid his hands down her bare legs and pulled them up around his hips, and she could feel the soft cloth of his breeches against her thighs. He pulled her legs higher, and he was deeper, bigger than she'd expected, and she found her body reacting, her hips reaching up, wanting that unspeakable invasion, wanting more and not knowing what it was.
"I'm afraid..." he said breathlessly. "Can't wait..." He slid his hand up her leg until it was between them, and he touched the place he'd used his mouth on. Clitoris, he'd called it. How could he know more about her body than she did?
He pushed inside her again, hard, and he seemed to grow even bigger, swelling, and she knew something glorious was about to happen, when he let out a muffled curse and pulled free from her, and she felt a hot wetness cover her belly as he collapsed beside her on the bed.
He was trying to catch his breath, and she was twisting, restless, confused, when he rolled back, trapping her body with one long leg as she tried to pull away.
"'Sorry," he said, not sounding particularly repentant. "You seem to have an unexpectedly strong effect on me. I barely made it out in time. The last thing I want to do is saddle you with a brat.”
Part of her understood what he was saying. He had spilled his seed outside her body so she wouldn't get pregnant. Leaving her empty, aching, feeling strange and restless and unfinished.
Why would any woman seek this out? It was messy, undignified, and while the things he did with his mouth had had the most astonishing effect on her. the fact remained that for a few minutes of unimaginable pleasure she'd destroyed her future.
She tried to sit up, but he pushed her back down again with lazy strength. He laughed. "I usually manage these things better. The truth is, you excite me beyond measure, for no earthly reason I can think of." He pulled her closer to his body on the soft bed, and she was feeling too weak to fight him. He pulled her into his arms, curling his bigger body around her back, and she felt some of the strange tension begin to leave her. This was what she wanted, what she had always wanted, she thought. Her back pressed against his chest, his arms around her, holding her against his warm, hard body. Her bum was up against his sex, but he was no longer hard, and she had nothing to fear from him anymore. She started to release a sigh when she felt his hand on her stomach, long fingers splayed across the soft, sticky surface.
And then before she realized what he'd intended his fingers dipped lower, into the soft curls between her legs, and she froze.
“No," she said sharply, trying to pull away.
She'd forgotten how strong he was. He had one arm around her, clamping her body against his, as his other hand continued its wicked descent.
“We're still not finished," he murmured in her ear, his voice low and wicked. "You're not finished."
She tried to kick out, but he simply trapped her long legs with one of his, as his fingers slid lower, finding that dangerous place he'd found earlier.
She was wet down there, from him as well as her own embarrassing dampness, and his fingers slid easily against her. He did it with insulting ease— one moment she was struggling, fighting, and in the next she'd gone rigid in his arms, every nerve in her body contracting in shameful delight.
He moved his hand, spreading the wetness around her sex, and she caught her breath. He touched her again, harder, longer, with wicked, wicked knowledge of a woman's body, and she cried out as the cruel delight washed over her again, and again.
Finally he moved his hand away, reaching up to cup her chin, pulling her face back so that his mouth could meet hers, and he kissed her as he'd touched her, long, hard and deep. She started to turn toward him when his hand slid down her stomach once more, and she broke the kiss.
“Please," she begged, desperate. "I can't take any more. Please."
''You can," he said, his voice dark and dangerous. "You can take anything I give you." And when he touched her this time she was shot into a darkness so deep that there was no escape. At the apex of her release she screamed, unable to stop herself.
He turned her in his arms then, and she was sobbing against his chest as he held her, his hands stroking her hair, her tear-streaked face, her trembling mouth. When the last shaky sob died away her kissed her with such tenderness that she wanted to start crying anew.
He was whispering to her, soft, gentle words that made no sense, words of praise, love, pleasure. "Sleep now, angel," he said. "You need your rest."
She could feel him now. Somehow he'd gotten hard again, but he seemed in no hurry to do anything about it. "Sleep," he said, his lips against her brow, brushing her soft skin.
And so she slept.
Adrian looked down at the woman in his arms, sleeping so soundly, so trustingly. He'd been a bastard to do this to her—he could face that in the few brief moments of post-coital regret, when his own defenses were at low ebb. He should have left her strictly alone.
He'd already known how dangerous she was to his self-indulgent peace of mind. He'd been fascinated by her furtive glances, her well-hidden longing. He'd wanted her for a long time now, he realized, wanted her badly, and he'd been too proud and too vain to admit it. Adrian, Viscount Rohan could have anyone, all the great beauties of London and Paris. Why was he wasting his time with an overtall gawky virgin no one else wanted? Older than he was, though only by a trifle, with ivory skin and freckles and long, luscious legs and he m
ust be mad to be so obsessed with her.
He should have escorted her straight back to the house, accompanied by a stern lecture on the dangers of such reckless curiosity. Or even better, found a servant to take her back. She'd been an idiot to come out here in the first place. If he were a better man he could have rescued her from the mess she'd walked into.
But of course, he wasn't made to be the noble hero. And there would have been no one he could hand her off to—in fact he was less dangerous than most of his compatriots in sin. He shuddered to think what Cousin Etienne would have done to her.
A shaky sigh escaped her as she slept, and he told himself what a bastard he was. At least he'd pulled out at the last minute. In time, he hoped. Just to be certain, he'd make sure Lina shared the herbal infusion ladies of the ton swore by to avoid unwanted pregnancies. He could just imagine his father's reaction. The hypocritical bastard would flay him alive.
His mother, though, would be thrilled.
He rose from the bed, crossing the room to a stand that held a ewer of fresh water and a bowl. He washed, then poured clean water and towels and soaked them. He glanced back at the bed. She was sound asleep, and he shouldn't wake her, but she'd probably be feeling sore and sticky and generally uncomfortable. In truth he'd never had a virgin before, though certain members of the Heavenly Host preferred them, but he could imagine she might be feeling slightly abused. And he wanted her again.
He wasn't that fastidious—he would happily take her already covered with his seed, but he imagined she might balk. He slid back into the bed beside her, tucking her against his body, and began to wash her, slowly, lingeringly.
She opened her eyes drowsily. "Hush, love," he murmured, putting the warm damp cloth between her legs. "You'd probably prefer to soak in a bath, and I'll have my servant arrange it when he comes, but in the meantime this might help. Are you hurting?"
She looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. "When your servant comes you'll let me go?" she whispered.
He shook his head. "You won't want to."
"I want to now," she said with sleepy defiance.
He leaned over and brushed his mouth against hers, and he moved the wet cloth carefully, the heel of his hand pressing down on her clitoris while he slowly stroked her.
She made a muffled sound against his mouth, one of pleasure, and she lifted her hips towards his hand, his gentle stroking. He moved his lips lo her ear, biting the plump lobe for a moment before whisper-He could find other ways to give her pleasure, to take his own, but for some reason he wanted to be inside her again. Maybe he wasn't a total bastard, because he would give her time to...
Tb what? He certainly wasn't going to wait until she healed. He was hard, and he wanted her now, and there was no reason why he shouldn't take her.
He pulled the damp cloth away and dropped it on the floor, then reached for her. She was already half asleep again, and she moved toward him willingly, tucking her head against his shoulder, her hand on his arm, sighing deeply as her body relaxed against his. Trustingly.
He froze, and an ugly sneer twisted his mouth. He'd really managed lo shag her brains out, he thought. She should be fighting him, remembering he was the worst thing in the world for her. Instead she was sleeping in his arms like a trusting orphan.
Then again, she was the worst thing in the world for him. Because she was turning him into a dead
bore, when he'd much rather be his wicked, selfish self. There was nothing he could do about it. He simply ignored his aching cock, put his arms around her and let himself sleep.
10
Etienne de Giverney, the ci-devant Comte de Giverney, rose from the bed. Ci-devant—he despised that term. From before, it meant. An insult to the Bourbon aristocracy who were now, in the blood-soaked streets of Paris, mere citizens.
His cousin, Francis Rohan, had blithely handed over the title when he'd left France, the title that should have been Etienne's from birth. A lawyer had drafted a letter to the king, and voila, all was made right for a few short years. He'd left the tiny surgery where he'd grudgingly worked and enjoyed the life he'd deserved, in the huge old house in Paris, in the countryside chateau.
The chateau was rubble now—burned and trashed. He liked to think some of his servants had died inside, but more likely they were the ones attacking the place. His servants had always hated him.
The hotel in Paris was now some sort of government office, he'd heard. Government! It was to laugh. The canaille could no more govern themselves than they could walk on water. It would only be a matter of time before the bloody new regime would be overthrown, and all the ci-devant aristos would be back where they belonged.
In the meantime, he was an exile, basically penniless, though at least the English respected his title. And his cousin Francis had been generous, as always, inspired, no doubt, by a guilty conscience. Except someone like Francis Rohan, Marquess of Haverstoke, didn't possess a conscience.
It was more likely his wife, with her stupid English sense of honor. She'd done her best to make Francis abandon his profligate ways, ensuring him a damnably long life. How Etienne despised her for her softness. No Frenchwoman would be so weak as to attempt to tame her husband.
Ah, but there was Rohan's son, Adrian, Viscount Rohan. As his father had been granted a higher rank by a foolish English king, his son had taken one of his lesser titles, and at least Adrian was well on his way to the early death his father should have enjoyed. Etienne had taken him under his wing, much to the marquess's disapproval, which of course had only made Adrian more determined. He'd introduced him to all sorts of pleasures, any number of which could foreshorten his life. The English were so ridiculously conventional. Adrian liked to think of himself as a true libertine, a man without a soul or conscience, when in fact he still held to a ridiculous set of rules. Morality was for weaklings; it would be Adrian's undoing.
He wondered who he'd disappeared with. Etienne made certain he kept close to his young cousin. Last he'd seen him he'd been following a young monk. It was too much to hope that the coltish figure in the habit was male. He didn't recognize the woman's walk, but he wasn't concerned. One aristocratic English whore was much like the other. If Adrian developed an attachment, which so far he'd shown no signs of doing, then Etienne could handle the situation with his usual cold-blooded efficiency.
But there was no hurry. If Adrian continued on the path he was leading, the marquess of Haverstoke would be without an heir in no time. His first son had died of an ague ten years before, and Adrian looked to be following shortly, if Etienne had his way. And when he died, all that lovely money and the estates would go to Etienne, as well as the new English title and the old ones.
In the meantime, he was content to wait. Adrian would take care of his own early demise quite handily, and in the meantime, Etienne was enjoying his English life very much, thank you.
He moved to the bowl of water and began to wash the blood off his hands. It was a good thing his own servant, Gaston. accompanied him. Gaston could dispose of the well-paid courtesan who'd shared his bed last night, burn the blood-soaked sheets. He'd been in quite a frenzy last night. By today he was calmed, ready to partake in more genteel English customs.
The whore was staring at him, glassy-eyed, un-moving. She'd stopped screaming several hours ago, and her eyes were dull with hatred. Tant pis. He would pay her off, and in the dart no one would notice her scars.
There would be a picnic on the grass this morning. He could count on numerous partners beneath the springtime sun, and by the time he returned to his allotted cell there would be no sign of last night's play.
Still, he was curious about Adrian's choice. II wasn't the Countess of Whitmore—he'd seen her rushing off in the opposite direction with a good-looking servant, clearly intent on a little roll in the night—he'd see who she was at breakfast this morning and then he could decide whether he had anything to worry about.
Which was unlikely. In the three years since Etienne had bee
n exiled, Adrian had held no long-term relationships. He would scarcely start one at a gathering of the Mad Monks.
He laughed to himself. The Mad Monks. The English were so ridiculous in their sins, cloaking them in costume and folderol. At least Adrian preferred, like his cousin, to sin openly. It made his job so much easier.
The woman on the bed tried to speak, but no words came out. He cast a last, curious glance at her, and then walked out into the early-morning sunshine, whistling jauntily.
"There was a young tinker from Barton
Who wanted a use for his..."
"I don't suppose there's any way I can convince you to regale Montague with something other than obscene poetry?" Simon Pagett said in a world-weary voice.
"What would you suggest instead?" Lina said sharply. "An improving sermon? I imagine he's already heard enough of yours."
"Children, children," Montague said faintly. "Don't squabble. Simon, il wouldn't do you any harm to listen to a few naughty poems. I assure you, Lady Whitmore is quite gifted in their composition. And Lina, my precious, Simon’s sermons are actually quite interesting. I would never tolerate him as the new curate if they weren't."
“Don't try to convince me that you were actually going to attend church once he took over, Monty," Lina said. "I wasn't born yesterday."
"No, I do think that's going to be quite out of the question, don't you?" Monty said with a breath of a sigh. "Why don't the two of you go off somewhere and browbeat each other until you come up with a solution. I'm perfectly willing to tolerate either the sacred or the profane."
A wave of guilt washed over Lina, and she held his thin hand. "Oh, darling, I'm sorry. Of course you don't want to hear all this brangling going on about you."
"'My precious, you're crushing my fingers."
She immediately released his hand, but found herself casting a worried glance at Simon Pagett. She had been putting no pressure at all on her friend's frail hand, and yet even that had hurt. "Sometimes I don't know my own strength," she said with a shaky laugh, turning back. Monty's color was ashen, his lips bloodless, but his eyes were still sharp.
