London's Most Wanted Rake

by Bronwyn Scott

  Alina drew her fingers gently over the tiny impressions of the scar. It had faded over time, but it would always be there. It was the night he’d gone too far. He had not liked the way she’d looked at a gentleman, an English visitor, over dinner. Frankly, he’d not liked Englishmen since he’d discovered Channing’s infatuation with her. Alina squeezed her eyes shut, pushing back those memories. She’d been too young, too naïve to do anything then but bear it. She’d done nothing to inspire this new Englishman, but the comte, in his paranoia, believed otherwise.

  He’d called her to him in his chamber that evening and she’d known it would go badly, that she’d be blamed for some imagined slight, even though it was by his own orders that she graced his table and consorted with his guests. He’d been in a rage and he’d been planning. She saw too late that his signet ring had already been heating in the fire. She’d tried to run, tried to fight him. She’d not yet learned that such attempts excited him to frenzy. He’d ripped the fabric of her gown from her and pinned her to the wall with his weight while he’d pressed the scorching ring into her soft flesh, all the while she screamed, knowing no one would answer her cries.

  Alina drew the folds of her robe together and rebelted it. She’d changed that night. She’d gone from being a meek wife whose strategy for survival had been invisibility and quiet acceptance of her fate to a woman empowered by her assets. Maybe she didn’t have the brute strength to counter him physically or to stop him, but she had the power to deny him the satisfaction of watching her break. Harnessing that power had required her to be bold, to go against the teachings of childhood when it came to a woman’s duty and obedience. She’d had to acquire skills no decent Englishwoman learned in the schoolroom, but she’d done it. Sex became a game, a source of power and control, and she’d survived.

  It was not until she’d met Channing again in England upon her return, that she’d learned there could be pleasure. Even that lesson had been hard learned. He’d shown her how to soar like Icarus to the sun, then he’d let her crash. But tonight, she would have both the power and the pleasure.

  Alina gave her appearance a final glance. Satisfied, she checked the supplies in the drawer beside the bed. The capotes anglaise were prepared, one of them already out of its package so there would not be much interruption when the time came. She moved to the table and chairs set before the fire. Little vials of oil stood discreetly ready on the table top along with the more obvious bucket of champagne. She picked up one of the oils and removed the stopper, letting the scent of sandalwood fill the room. But that was not the one she was going to use on him. She had a nice vanilla-scented oil for that. All was in place.

  A thrill ran through her at the prospect of what lay ahead. Games and pasts aside, this was going to be a delightful seduction. The interlude at the summerhouse ensured it. It had served as an ice-breaker of sorts. The fast, heated, playful love making had paved the way for something more sophisticated and lingering, something that could take all night if they wanted. They would not repeat the mistakes of the previous night with a quarrel and insinuations from pasts neither of them fully understood. Better to live in the present.

  There was a quiet scratch on the door and her pulse raced for a moment with anticipation of what was to come. Sex with Channing Deveril was one of the highlights of her life as long as it was just sex, as long as she remembered the rules of the game and what she wanted at the end of it.

  Channing slipped inside and shut the door softly behind him. He was dressed in a robe, too, and his feet were bare. ‘I hope no one saw you.’ Alina let her gaze sweep his form. He was obviously naked beneath the robe. More than a hint of bare chest was visible between the lapels of the robe and his legs were uncovered. No one catching him in the hall would believe he was on his way to the library to pick out some night reading.

  ‘I didn’t want to waste time.’ Channing smiled, his hand going to the belt at his waist. It gave with a yank, the robe falling open to confirm his nakedness. In the next moment it was off, a dark pool at his feet. From there, her eyes went up past trim calves and muscled thighs, to the golden nest between his legs where his maleness rested. Only it was not at home just now, but rising strong and firm in anticipation of the evening. Beyond that, lean hips gave way to the expanse of his chest and the muscled smoothness of his arms and shoulders.

  Some men disappointed once the clothes came off, but not Channing. He was muscular, not in the way of a strong, stocky farmer who worked the land, but in the way of a gentleman who knew how to take care of himself and who had deliberately done so with hours on horseback and time spent in the male preserves of Jackson’s or Manton’s when in London. ‘I had forgotten how magnificent you are without clothes,’ she whispered, letting her eyes unabashedly drift back to the core of him. Of course, she remembered his body abstractly, the idea of him and how he felt. But this was so much better, so much more concrete.

  ‘Then I am pleased to remind you.’ He let her look, in no hurry to rush to the next stage of the night.

  She liked his boldness. He was not ashamed of his nudity or his blatant love of the sexual. The body was meant to be explored, each new body a chance for new discovery. She matched it with a boldness of her own. Alina undid the sash of her robe, her eyes moving to his face, holding his gaze. She wanted to watch him watch her when she did this.

  Alina shrugged the dressing robe from her shoulders, letting it slide from her body without touching it. It was an erotic little trick that implied a certain metamorphosis, an emergence from a cocoon, ready to take flight as a sensual butterfly.

  She pulled the clip from her hair and shook it down. It, too, was a beautifully calculated move to draw the eye from her face down the length of body as the viewer watched her hair fall past shoulders and over breasts. The gown at her feet, a glimmer of white in a dark room, ensured the viewer continued to look down to long slim legs and the carefully groomed silver pelt between them.

  Channing’s breath caught. ‘I don’t think Aphrodite could be any lovelier.’ She knew exactly what Channing liked and it pleased her to please him. That perhaps was the difference between Channing and her other lovers.

  There’d been no time in the summerhouse to appreciate the other’s body, only time to appreciate what their bodies could do to one another, for one another. She gestured to the chair and small table by the fire. ‘Will you come and sit? I have champagne chilling. Moët’s Imperiale Rose—your favourite, I believe.’ Her favourite as well. She never travelled without it, which was why she’d just happened to have two bottles with her. She’d certainly not expected Lady Lionel to have any in her cellar. She’d had it chilling since the return from the egg hunt.

  She opened the bottle herself, her back to the firelight, knowing full well the sensual nature of what she presented—a naked woman, pulling the cork from a champagne bottle. The effect was immediate. Channing’s blue eyes darkened to deep sapphire. She poured him a glass and then one for her. ‘To a long and satisfying night,’ she toasted.

  The coldness of the champagne sliding down one’s throat was a titillating contrast to the heat of the fire. ‘Is there anything more decadent than this?’ Channing said with a happy sigh. ‘Drinking champagne naked.’

  ‘I can think of a few things,’ she offered coyly, her eyes dropping briefly to his phallus.

  ‘Are you going to sit?’ Channing nodded to the empty chair.

  Alina set aside her champagne and reached for the vial of vanilla oil. ‘No, I’m going to kneel.’ She gave him a wicked smile and took up her position between his legs. She poured oil into the cup of her hand, holding Channing’s gaze, and blew on it. No one in their right mind would actually believe she was in the submissive role here. Of course, men weren’t usually in their right minds, which accounted for the belief that this sort of pleasuring by mouth was a subservient act. Alina had no such illusions. She had all the power. Channing’s b
roken exhalation of ‘Have mercy, Alina, I’m only a mere mortal’, was proof enough of that.

  ‘Pleasure, then mercy,’ she murmured. She massaged his inner thighs first, relaxing the muscles as she worked in the oil, enjoying the reminder of his excellent physique. A man who took care of himself was a confident man, capable of taking care of others, a man who believed in his own prowess, his own value. There was a certain aphrodisiacal quality to that knowledge. Her thumbs made a habit of occasionally brushing the edges of his sac as she massaged. Channing moaned in appreciation and she moved her massage on to more intimate parts. She gently drew her fingernail across his balls and felt them tighten.

  ‘Vixen!’

  She looked up and placed a kiss on his phallus. ‘You’re magnificent, Channing.’ Then it was time to take him in hand. She loved stroking him, truth be told, loved the feel of the hot length of him, the radiant power of him contained in this living centre, loved knowing she could call it to life with a look, a touch, a press of her lips against its tender head. She stroked him until he begged, ‘Your mouth, Alina, please.’ He’d slid down in the chair and his hands had dug into the wood of the arm rests.

  She was happy to comply. She tongued his tip and then his length, tasting the salt of him mingled with the vanilla , a sweet-sour combination as heady as the man himself. It was nearly as arousing to her as the act was to him. She could feel her core weep as she took him, her body knowing her own turn at such pleasure wasn’t far away.

  ‘Alina!’ His body tensed and the hoarse cry was all the warning she had. She slipped her mouth from him and took him in her hand, holding him, catching him, as his body climaxed. She was prepared for that, too. Soft hand towels were waiting beneath the table, out of sight until needed. She cleaned him, delighting in the intimacy of such an act, and delighting, too, in the nature of a man who was bold enough, comfortable enough with himself, to allow such a thing. A French lover would certainly not have minded, but the English were not at ease with any ounce of evidence of the sexual act, another reminder of how much she’d changed in her years away.

  She felt Channing’s hand cover hers as she finished her ministrations. His voice was full of husky promise. ‘Come to bed, let me return the favour.’

  Channing led her to the bed, their hands entwined, a most intimate walk knowing the outcome that waited for her. But Channing was in no rush to claim that outcome. Ah, he knew how to prolong the delicious anticipation. He kept them upright, taking her mouth in a long kiss that licked and sucked and promised a dilettante’s pleasure. ‘Good things come to those who wait,’ Channing murmured, his lips moving over hers.

  ‘But he who hesitates is lost,’ she whispered, giving his lower lip a little bite.

  He didn’t make her wait much longer. He swept her up in his arms and deposited her on the bed. It was not the playful, rambunctious dumping that had accompanied his tackle in the summerhouse today. It was the laying down of a treasured lover, a prince preparing to claim his princess. ‘There, now I can look at you properly.’ Channing lay down beside her, his golden head propped in his hand, his blue eyes intense with desire.

  His hand was splayed in the valley between her breasts before he moved to cup each one, his thumb flicking across each nipple in turn until she arched against him, a mewl of delight on her lips. Even the lightest of his touches was exquisite, every touch building anticipation and want for the more intimate touches that would come. Then his hand was there at last, on her silvery mons, his fingers gently parting her folds, searching for her feminine pearl. He found it with unerring accuracy.

  ‘You’re beautiful by candlelight.’ Channing’s voice was rough.

  ‘Don’t take me all the way, Channing. I want it to come with you inside me,’ she breathed the command.

  ‘Come both times. Why do you have to choose?’ Channing kissed her mouth then, his tongue making a fair reproduction of the strokes of his finger over her tight bud until she thought she’d scream from the dual sensations. And he was right. Why choose when she didn’t have to? Channing brought her to the brink and toppled her over it in a wave of pleasure that shattered on a far shore. But he wasn’t done yet. He took what he needed from the little drawer beside the bed and he moved between the cradle of her legs. He began the ultimate act, the one they’d been building towards all night. Her fears that their extensive foreplay would deplete their resources were for naught. Her body stirred to life, her legs wrapping around his hips, urging him to take her, the rhythm claiming them both.

  She met his thrusts, arching into him, their cries mingling until they were both lost in the other. She was aware in an abstract sense of consciousness that his hair had fallen over his face, that his head was buried at her shoulder. She was aware, too, that she was no longer in charge, that Channing had taken over the interaction entirely and was directing it, driving them with each thrust to an explosive conclusion. She was consumed entirely with the act as he pumped furiously into her one last time.

  He held her to him, letting the power of the climax consume them both. He was her anchor in these precious moments where her mind was blank, empty of everything but the enormity of what they had wrought between them. Surely this was the eighth wonder of the world? She did not want to let go. She was content to stay wrapped in his arms, his phallus still inside her as it recovered, their breathing beginning to slow, his heart beating against hers, skin to skin in an ever-steadying rhythm. Then came the moment he withdrew from her and rolled to his side. She felt strangely bereft except for the connection of his gaze, binding them, connected as if this was more than sex, as if it mattered. No wonder he was London’s finest.

  ‘Do you look at all the women you bed like this?’ Alina asked drowsily. She felt him tense momentarily and winced. In her current state, she had not thought that last question out.

  But Channing played along as if nothing were amiss. He drew a circle around the aureole of her breast and smiled. ‘And how is that exactly?’ It was a heart-stoppingly sincere smile that would have melted her had she not already been a pile of useless, disconnected bones.

  ‘As if I am your rapture,’ Alina ventured.

  Channing gave a laugh. ‘Oh, that way. Then the answer is no. Only you. I look at only you that way.’

  ‘I suppose you say that to all the girls,’ she flirted a little.

  ‘No, not all of them.’ He favoured the side of her neck with a kiss. ‘Just the ones who serve me champagne naked.’

  He was teasing her now and she was more awake, her senses recovered. She propped herself up on an arm and reached for him. ‘You’re a wicked tease, Channing Deveril, and for that you should be punished.’ He was stirring against her hand already.

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘I suggest this.’ She kissed him hard on the mouth and rolled on top of him. ‘I get to ride you in revenge.’ She put her hands behind her head so that her breasts were in full relief and rose up over him, coming down to take him inside, feeling him harden within her as she slid down his length.

  ‘Ah, this is why they say revenge is sweet.’ Channing grinned.

  Chapter Ten

  Channing’s internal clock, the one every gentleman of a certain repute carried within him to urge him out of bed before the house roused, nudged him awake around five in the morning. But that healthy dose of self-preservation, the one that had rolled him out of Marianne Bixley’s lavender-scented bed and encouraged him to leave immediately failed him. The sight of Alina asleep beside him, her hair spread on the pillow like a pale fan, created a powerful argument to stay. Her maid, Celeste, wouldn’t mind if she came in and found her mistress abed with him. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Channing stifled a groan. This was where it got complicated, the game within the game—was it real or did it just seem real? Last night, she’d seduced him like the best of Venetian courtesans, everything care
fully, artfully choreographed for maximum effect and yet executed so effortlessly that it appeared natural and one soon forgot that perhaps it wasn’t.

  It was the ‘perhaps’ that bothered him the most. Like himself, she was a sensual, sexual creature at heart. In the bedroom arts, she matched him pleasure for pleasure, fantasy for fantasy. But how much of it meant something? Any of it? None of it? Was she playing with him the way he’d played with so many women who’d come to the League over the years, looking for something temporarily satisfying in their mundane lives?

  Why did he do this to himself? His logical mind knew these answers and it was laughing at his less-logical self that insisted on taking these questions out yet again and exploring them. First, he knew empirically she had the capacity to play with him. She’d shunned him brutally in Paris after he’d offered her the world, traded his offering for satins and jewels. Second, she’d been attempting to distract him since he arrived. She’d made it clear she didn’t want him probing into her business too closely. Last night might have been fun, but the more fool he was if he didn’t acknowledge it was also just another level of distraction. He wasn’t the only one playing a game within a game here.

  But he was also a fool if he didn’t acknowledge how it had made him feel. Being with Alina could not be compared to any of his other assignments. Those were mere exercises in the physical. This was something more. Which was likely why he kept revisiting the same old question: did this mean anything? Could he let it mean anything? Even though he knew the risks and had done all he could to protect himself from hurt.

  He knew his rules: seduce the information and nothing else. She could not be trusted with anything else. She’d broken his young man’s heart once upon a time. He should know better. Yet he couldn’t say he was making much headway there. He was no closer to knowing what she wanted with Seymour than before the summerhouse. He gave a little laugh. He hadn’t meant to do it out loud. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Well, that was certainly an adage he wouldn’t mind employing with Alina.